


Blood Ties

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2009
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-15
Updated: 2009-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 04:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still reeling from Alistair's arrival and the return of Anna's grace, Sam and Dean are on the run, only taking standard cases. But when they decide to investigate a peculiar nest of vampires, they find there is no hiding from the choices they've made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Big Bang Challenge art by Svala
> 
> Vid: [Flames, by VAST](http://archiveofourown.org/works/370593?page=1#comments)
> 
> Covers: [Art Post](http://archiveofourown.org/works/370569)

Somewhere on the side of a long stretch of Kentucky highway, Dean breaks down. Dean cries great heaving sobs that shake his shoulders, the car, and the foundations of Sam’s faith.

Even the sky is grey, and Sam can hear the murmurs of hundreds of bereaved loved ones at countless funerals whispering to the clouds that _even the angels are crying_ , but Sam knows better.

No angel cares enough to cry for Dean.

Dean’s walls collapse and Sam’s walls respond by rising even higher, cordoning him off because his brother needs space, not sympathy that will be mistaken for a pity he doesn’t think he deserves.

So Dean cries, and Sam listens to him say how he doesn’t want to feel, and selfishly wishes he could remember what feeling feels like.

But then Dean stands, wipes his eyes, straightens his jacket and looks Sam in the eyes. Sam stares back and doesn’t flinch. Dean nods once, tight and sure.

Then they go hunting.

~*~

The hunts are relentless. Dean is driven, focused in a way that Sam’s only heard about from snippets of stories hard-won from Bobby; about his father and the yellow-eyed demon and Sammy being away at Stanford and how the entire world narrowed to just one thing; kill or be killed.

Sam hunts with him because he won’t lose him, not again, not _ever_.

He tells Ruby to back off and he means it, and he doesn’t think about her late at night when he’s pumping spirits full of rock salt, saving people who are doomed to be killed bloody in just a few months anyway because he’s fighting a skirmish when he should be out winning the war.

Dean hunts, and Sam hunts _for_ hunts. He picks things Dean can handle -spirits, creatures, and the occasional cursed object. Sam searches when Dean falls fitfully into sleep against his will, and Sam sleeps while Dean drives.

He finds a lot more jobs than they can take. He’s picky about which ones he chooses.

When Dean looks too pale and thin, when he retches every time he wakes from a nightmare, when his eyes don’t look like they see the world around him and stop reflecting green and start glowing with flames, Sam picks something close.

When Sam can look at Dean and really see Dean looking back, when Dean can hold down a meal, when Dean scoffs at Sam’s worried glances and quips about his brother needing to get laid more, Sam picks long drives.

Sometimes, by the time they get there, Dean almost looks like Dean again. Maybe Sam can’t remember the last time they stayed in a motel for more than one night, but on those days, it’s worth it.

Sam discards more hunts than he picks. Dean never questions his choices. They keep the hex bags Ruby gave them and Dean wears his on his belt and never calls Sam on the fact that they haven’t hunted a single demon.

Sam comes across a possible vampire nest, and his fingers pause on the keys of his overtaxed laptop. He remembers Red Lodge, and seeing his brother with a machine-held chainsaw and blood on his face. He remembers Gordon’s jubilant laughter and Dean’s dead, empty eyes.

He remembers New Harmony, seeing his brother stiff and cold with blood on his face and dead, empty eyes.

If it is a vampire nest, more people are going to die.

Sam thinks of the way Dean pales just a shade every time he cleans the knives, how he looks when he has to fight with one, like he’s holding something poisonous.

Sam closes the window. People die everyday, _everywhere_ , and he’s just fighting skirmishes when he should be out winning the war, and so he picks a haunting instead, and he tells Dean they’re going to Denver.

~*~

“ _Fuck_.”

“Dean, don’t –“

“ _Dammit_ , Sammy!”

Dean lifts his hand like he wants to throw the .45, but he whirls like he can’t decide what to throw it at, and Sam’s just glad that it isn’t _him_.

Sam reaches towards his brother, but Dean flinches visibly, eyes looking everywhere but at Sam as he clutches the gun’s grip tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Sam drops his hand wearily.

“Dean,” he starts, but he doesn’t know where to go from there. What can he say that hasn’t been said before? That Dean hasn’t said to _him_ before?

Sam slumps against the trunk of the nearest tree he can find. Trees are strong, they have no allegiances, and the one he picks holds him without caring who he is or what he’s destined for. “We …”

“Ahh,” Dean growls, wiping his left hand over his eyes as he turns away. He stares at the ground, shoulders rising and falling rapidly as he breathes through his nose with singular concentration.

“Dean,” Sam tries again, so softly he can barely hear himself talk. He feels the miles stretching out between them. He prays the words find their way to Dean; hopes his brother really hears them. “We got here as fast as we could.”

Dean freezes, going completely still. Sam holds his breath.

Slowly, Dean turns to the Impala’s trunk. He unlocks it and tosses the gun inside carelessly, causing Sam to flinch at the noise.

Dean’s eyes meet Sam’s, burning hot enough that Sam has to look away.

“Not fast enough.” Dean says. “Get in the car.”

After that, Sam doesn’t sleep, and Dean picks the hunts.

~*~

After Denver, there’s Maple Springs. Salt Lake City. Waycross.

And then there’s Stratton, Nebraska.

Dean saves the kid, but it’s by killing another kid, a lost kid. A feral kid. Dean makes the kill without hesitating, two shots, ruthless and efficient. He watches the family as they cling to each other, and he hears them say _thank you_ , and he smiles. Sam hopes that maybe things will finally start going right.

But after, Dean isn’t hungry, and that’s when Sam knows something is wrong. He looks Sam right in the eyes, clarity like Sam hasn’t seen in months flowing from him in waves.

 _“No matter how many people I save, I can’t change that. I can’t fill this hole – not ever.”_

Sam stares back and doesn’t flinch. Dean nods once, tight and sure.

Then they go hunting.


	2. Prologue

Chrissy lets her shoulders slump against the rough brick wall behind the Style Pro salon, finally relaxing as she takes a drag. As much as she hates herself for it, she needs the mellow feeling brought by cigarettes to keep on track. She hates her job, but she needs it, and if she wants to keep it she needs to have steady hands.

Nicotine is just about the only thing that keeps the headaches away nowadays. Her doctor insists on blaming stress, but beside the fact that she lives in a crappy one-room apartment that cost more than most people pay for a house and is getting nowhere in her so-called ‘career’, Chrissy really isn’t sure what there is to be stressed about. Lots of people need cash, right? Well, they do around here. She’s pretty sure about that.

Sometimes she wonders why the Hell she moved out west at all.

Idly she thumbs her lighter and watches the flame dance in the misty afternoon haze. The colors mesmerize her and she stares for a long time, jumping when a gust of wind suddenly blows the fire out.

Chrissy blinks and shakes her head, clearing vague images from her mind – random pictures of violence and blood, some from movies, and some ...

She sighs. Maybe she is stressed, after all.

She laughs a little as she tucks the lighter away. It’s a present from her geek boyfriend, and it has a picture of a skull and a red rose on it. When he gave it to her he said, “See, now you can’t say I never bought you flowers.” She grins at the thought. What an idiot.

Chrissy waits as long as she dares before deciding to head back inside. Afternoon shadows lengthen in the alley, making everything look longer somehow. She’s fumbling for her access key when it hits her; a feeling like she’s being watched, relayed from her spine right to her brain via sudden, achy chills.

She freezes, one hand on the key and the other on the doorknob. A quick glance around the alley shows that she’s alone. She shakes her head wearily, wishing she could stop being so paranoid. The feeling doesn’t fade, but she’s learned to ignore them. It’s necessary if she’s ever going to be a real person.

Finding the key, she wrenches the door open and hurries inside. She pushes the feeling away for now, but makes a note to be careful when she leaves later, because around here, she can never really be sure.

Back inside the light and safety of the salon, surrounded by chatty soccer moms and high stress business types, lulled by a false sense of peace from the drug in her system, she forgets all about it.

When she leaves that night, she never comes back.

~*~

“Duuuuuude.” Dean whistles out his disbelief as he paws tentatively through the laundry. His eyes narrow and he leans down a little further, wrinkling his nose as he peers into the pile. Not taking his eyes off the suspicious contents, he snaps his fingers at Sam. “Dude. Get me a crowbar or somethin’.”

“What?”

“A _wrench_ or somethin’, c’mon.”

“No.” Sam feels his lips trying to twitch into a smile. Some days, keeping up his carefully offended expression is just too hard. Usually, the day they do the laundry – all of the laundry – is one of those days. “Your turn, Dean.”

“Oh, bite me.”

“Your rules, too.”

Dean scowls in Sam’s general direction, biting his lip in disappointed concentration before deciding to go for broke. He starts digging through the pile slowly, extracting articles of clothing one by one. He delicately transfers them into the washer with minimal physical contact, mumbling idle threats under his breath.

Sam lets the grin take over now that Dean isn’t looking anymore. Something about the ritual relaxes him. He’s seated cross-legged on top of a dryer that’s still warm from the last load, his laptop is settled across his calves like an loyal pet, and if he closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of detergent and dryer sheets, he can almost pretend ...

Dean makes a choking noise. “Uh, Sam? Is this _Ruby’s_?”

Sam cracks an eye open. _Damn_. So much for the good old days.

Dean’s holding a red lacy bra up with one finger, and Sam’s not sure if his brother looks impressed, repulsed, or both at the same time. Sam settles for both at the same time, because hey – Dean can absolutely do that.

Sam smirks, hoping the smirk will cover for the fact that he has no idea. It’s really been a while since they did _all_ the laundry.

“Gross.” Dean chucks the bra over his shoulder, not bothering to look where it lands, and goes back to the task at hand.

The only other occupant - a rumpled white-haired woman with a fuzzy purple sweater and a huge leather handbag - tosses Dean a slightly scandalized look as she makes a break for the exit, and Sam chuckles.

An alert on his screen catches his eye, and he frowns as he keys up his inbox.

“Problem?”

Sam feels his good mood evaporate as the window comes into view. “Uh, maybe. I mean no.” He looks up to find Dean staring at him with eyebrows raised, waiting. “A hunt, maybe.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

Sam’s stomach rolls. It’s been a month, easy, since he last got a hit on this hunt. He passed it up then and he wants to pass it up now. But another person is dead, and he doesn’t have anything else. He locks eyes with Dean, searching.

Since Stratton, Dean has been slower reaching for the bottle. He’s been a little steadier in the mornings – and a little less reckless at night.

Sam can’t ignore this hunt anymore.

“Yeah, OK.”

Dean grins, an honest-to-god grin. “Where we headed?”

Sam groans inwardly. “Atlanta.”

Dean nods, slamming the lid of the washer shut. “Sounds like a plan.”

Sam tries to ignore the uneasy feeling in his gut, tries to ignore the gravitational pull of this hunt that turned him off in the first place.

He tries not to think about how they say Atlanta is the stop-over to everywhere, even Hell.

~*~

“Mr. Sullivan, we’re very sorry to disturb you, but we need to ask you a few questions.”

“I already told the police everything I know.”

“Yes Sir, we realize that, but you see … “

Sam’s patented low-pitched sympathy voice floats steadily across the alleyway. Dean finds he can almost mouth the words by heart – both sides of the conversation, actually. Christina Chambers was abducted from this alley two weeks before. They decided Sam would be the one to grill her boss. Not that Sam would ever call it grilling.

Even though his brother has a newly hardened shell, Sam can still turn on the trust-me eyes like no one else. Dean smiles softly, because it’s good to know that some things never change. More than good, actually; sometimes that fact is all Dean has to hold on to.

Yes, ‘Chrissy’ worked here. No, she didn’t have any enemies. The police raked the area with a fine-toothed comb. Sweet girl, real shame. Sad world. Pretty common around here, I guess.

Dean absentmindedly finishes his examination of the narrow strip of road. He hadn’t expected to see anything remarkable, and he isn’t disappointed. Leftover puddles from a mild shower glisten on the asphalt as water runs lazily to the sewer drain. A couple of garbage bins stand sentinel next to the doors of their respective shops. The most threatening thing Dean sees is a mangy kitten slinking along the gutter line, all ribs and eyes.

Dean pulls distractedly at his tie. When Sam had hit this case, he’d been all for it, but right now he really just wants to get out of the monkey suit and have a beer. Actually, screw the beer. Jack … now that sounds awesome.

Dean’s eyes narrow as he watches Sam. The kid hides things well, but it’s obvious the whole hunting-like-a-soul-outta-Hell routine is running him straight into the ground.

Dean had a long time out, and sure, mentally he’s pretty damn screwed - but he came back into the game physically better than ever thanks to the power of the Almighty Angelic Respawn Button. Sam, on the other hand, is out of continues.

Dean listens to his brother for a moment longer before turning away.

He’d tried everything to make Sam see what he was. He even went so far as to lay his atrocities right out in the open for Sam to inspect. He’d held his breath and waited for Sam to condemn him. When he looked up his brother’s face was impassive.

But when he looked closer, Dean saw something more. Sam’s eyes glittered with emotion, and Dean loosely translated the wordless cry to mean something like “ _You drive a Porcshe and dance the Tango better than anyone I’ve ever seen_ ”, and that was just _it_. Something inside Dean relaxed.

Freed of the agonizing fog of worry that Sam might just up and leave him, the first thing he’d noticed was that Sam had dark circles under his eyes that had nothing to do with a lack of sleep.

They were finally clicking again, moving in sync, recovering from threats from both sides, and the truth was, Dean didn’t really want to talk about it anymore anyway.

So he never told his little brother the rest.

~*~

Sam knows Dean is beat, but they need to make one more stop first, and Dean just nods his consent and tells Sam he’s the navigator.

A good hour later Sam glances to the door, thinking that he can remember a time when being in this room would have made him incredibly nervous. He shakes his head at the fact that it would have been the identity fraud - and not the dead bodies - that bothered him in the first place.

Dean locates the correct drawer with almost no trouble, giving a wry grin when he sees the number.

“Dean. C’mon, man.”

“Psh. Prude.”

“I’m not a prude, Dean, I’m just not five.”

Dean pulls a face and slides the drawer open. Christina Chambers, pale and still and very much deceased, lies inside.

Sam flips slowly through page after page of the autopsy report while Dean unzips the body bag. “Nothing on the tox screen.” Sam states.

“That’s not what these say,” Dean replies, squinting down towards the victim’s pale arm. Sam waits for an explanation, and Dean obliges, lifting the limb gently. “Track marks.”

“Huh.”

Dean keeps looking, relaying observations as he makes them. The girl doesn’t have any marks besides the obvious; a large gash across the base of her neck. The laceration is deep enough to almost sever the spine, the mark of a killer that really means business.

Halfway down the third page, Sam finds what he’s looking for, and he feels a slight flip in his gut. This unfortunate girl makes four so far, spread out over the last few months; and if he’d answered the pull when it came the first time, Chrissy would still be alive.

He waits for the feeling that he knows should come, but it never does. Dean wasn’t ready, and Sam just can’t bring himself to feel sorry. He never wonders what happened to his compassion. It isn’t gone; it just turned in to something else. Something stronger, more useful.

Dean’s eyes narrow as he inspects the glaring wound. He shrugs. “This is what killed her, Sammy. Are you sure this is our kind of thing?”

Sam flicks the paper in his hand. “Coroner’s report shows that she was beyond anemic.” Sam announces.

“Her throat was slit, Sam.” Dean says slowly, pointing to the metal box.

Sam analyzes the comment and finds it a tad heavy on the sarcasm. “That’s not what I – her blood ratios were off. She had almost no red blood cells left.” He replies.

Dean’s brow furrows like he was actually expecting Sam to go with the whole her-throat-was-slit explanation. “Which means?”

“Which means whoever took her bled her first, and probably for a long time.” Sam looks up expectantly, watching for Dean’s reaction. Sure enough, his brother frowns, staring into Chrissy’s white face.

Dean stares thoughtfully at the pinpoint scars on the insides of the dead girl’s arms. Sam sees the gears turning, Dean assessing the situation, doing the math in his head. “I.V. draws, sonnofabitch.” Dean whispers.

Sam doesn’t think Dean is aware of the way his right hand curls into a fist.

“Djinn?”

Sam shakes his head, pointing at the girl’s wound. “Wouldn’t waste it,” he says darkly.

Dean’s shoulders relax, and he searches Sam out with a hint of the old excitement glinting from the narrow slivers of green. “Vampires?” he asks.

Sam shrugs, trying to project nonchalance. “The nest would have to be huge. The range – the pattern I’ve been tracking … I just don’t know, man.”

Dean pulls himself to his full height, zips the bag back up, and slides the drawer shut with an air of finality. “Slashing her’d be a good way to cover their tracks,” he says. “Cops think serial killer, figure the girl’s a drug addict, and bingo. No vamp hunt.”

Sam nods, because he thought the same thing a month ago, but there’s no reason to bring up that particular fact.  
“Ready to head out?” Sam asks.

Dean nods, and they head for the exit smoothly. Sam is glad to be moving to the next step of the hunt; the visceral feel of tracking, the thrill of the chase, and the cold, unforgiving finality of vigilante justice.

It’s the part his brother used to live and breathe, the reason he used to always say he was born for the job. It’s the part that used to make Dean, _Dean_ \- while Sam was just _Sam_ , and never understood it.

Sam feels the hunger curling deep inside, circling the cool dark place where he hides his destiny. He understands it now.

Dean’s hand is on the door handle when he stops cold, frozen. Sam bumps into him from behind, cursing under his breath.

“Dean, what?” he hisses.

Dean speaks in a whisper, but his voice has gone hard. “Just how long have you been tracking these vamps, Sam.” The phrase is not a question.

Sam waits for the feeling he knows should come but doesn’t, the one he used to have whenever he got caught in a lie, like the time his father found him with _To Kill A Mockingbird_ when he should have been reading Latin.

Sam’s jaw clenches. He’s tired of running, tired of fighting everyone but the one he wants, and before he can stop what he knows is a disastrous admission, he hears himself say, “You weren’t ready.”

Dean doesn’t move, but Sam can feel the wave of anger wash over his brother just the same. Sam waits, staring at the back of Dean’s head like he wishes he could pry it open and dig all the Bad Stuff out. Dean sets his shoulders, wrenches the door open and stalks down the hall with a relentless gait.

Sam sighs as he trails behind. He’ll have to apologize later, say he didn’t mean it, and hope Dean can’t detect the lie.

At least these things usually end up working out for the better. For example, Sam is the only person he’s ever met who can quote the entirety of _To Kill a Mockingbird in Latin_.


	3. Chapter 3

They leave the morgue in silence, find a crap motel in silence, grab some takeout in silence, and by the time Sam has tracked down Chrissy’s boyfriend’s address and DMV photo, he’s had _enough_ of freaking _silence_.

Sam drops the phone book to the bedside table top with a _thud_. He lowers his head into his hands, trying just to breathe through the anger. It’s enough that the angels don’t trust him. It’s enough that the demons won’t face him.

Sam can’t fight Dean, too. He _won’t_. When he raises his eyes to Dean, he hopes they don’t glimmer with the shine of power he feels. He feels like patting himself on the back for how calm his voice comes out.

“Dammit Dean, you have to talk to me some time.”

Dean pauses mid-bite and after a moment’s consideration, tosses his half-eaten pizza back into the box. Sam waits for him to say something - yell maybe - but he just looks worn, dark circles under his eyes and new lines of stress crinkling his forehead. Sam swallows hard, trying to hold on to his anger.

“Dean?”

Dean scrubs his hand through his hair, pressing his lips together like he does when he’s holding back a confession. It’s a gesture so familiar that Sam can’t decide if he wants to wants to hug his brother or kick his ass.

Dean takes a deep breath. “I’m not mad at you,” he says hesitantly, drawing out the words as if he thinks he can make them equal the distance between them. “I … I’m tired, Sam.”

Sam nods stiffly. He wants to look somewhere else, but his eyes are locked on Dean’s. His pulse speeds, and more than anything he doesn’t want to hear whatever Dean will say next. Not when Dean won’t let him say he’s sorry. Not when his brother won’t allow Sam to use the power that would have stopped him from going to Hell in the first place.

But Dean doesn’t say anything else. He just looks at Sam like he’s at a complete loss, and Sam knows he has to let it go. He owes Dean that much: the freedom to just give up on the explanations for a while.

“I know.” Sam whispers.

The silence descends again, but the edge is gone from it, leaving Sam hollow inside. Deans stares mindlessly at his hands, his gaze focused far away.

Sam clears his throat, and Dean flinches, looking back up with vague surprise. “Look,” Sam says softly, “I’m gonna head out, talk to the boyfriend.” He holds up a scrap of paper for Dean to see. “Found the address.” he adds. He doesn’t need to add _why don’t you chill for a while_. Dean knows an out when he sees one.

Dean blinks, a flicker of uncertainty running across his face. His eyes narrow shrewdly, focusing on Sam like lasers.

Sam keeps his stance open and calm. He hates this game, the way he has to step carefully around Dean like a wild animal, re-earning his trust with every word, every motion.

Dean nods briefly, turning back to the pizza box.

Sam grabs the keys and stands, moving for the door and opening it softly. The cool afternoon breeze flows around him, ruffling his hair. The weather is perfect on the outskirts of the city, untouched by the urban smog. Seventy degrees and not a cloud in sight. It’ll be a good afternoon to drive.

Sam steps out, pulling the door along with him, but Dean’s voice jerks him to a stop mid-stride.

“Sammy.”

Sam cocks his head to the right, listening.

“You’re right. I … you were right, back there.”

Sam stares into the open sky.

“Get some rest, Dean.”

He closes the door softly behind him, hoping that Dean getting some rest will even be able to help.

~*~

Dean is sleeping a lot. He knows it, and he knows Sam knows it. Every time he closes his eyes, the angels are there. Sometimes he can see them, feel the brittle touch of feathers on his skin, sense their power in the darkened spaces. He tries to run, he doesn’t want them, he wants to hide, but he can’t seem to get away: running, always running, always trying to forget the screaming.

He remembers every face, the sound of every whimper they made as they writhed under his blade. He remembers which ones were innocent, and which ones deserved it. He remembers the ones that he would do again, even now, if he got the chance.

Dean is two men now. One is a hero and one is a killer, and the tortured man who turned into the killer is ten years older than him.

He hates himself for it, but most days, he’s grateful that Sammy’s got his own shit going down. The old Sam – _his_ Sam – was way too observant to miss the signs. _He’d know_ , Dean thinks. The old Sam would know his brother was nothing better than a finely sharpened instrument; a perfect killer.

The dreams fade in the daylight, leaving him with echoes and impressions of wings, of fire and blood, and he doesn’t know if what he’s seeing is a memory or a nightmare. He’s not sure what the difference would be, anyway.

Dean bites back a scream of frustration and hurls his pillow as hard as he can at the mirror. It makes a muffled _thud_ when it hits, causing the mirror to wave quickly back and forth, Dean’s image a shimmering reflection in the center.

Dean looks resolutely away, eyeing the clock instead. He can’t go back to sleep, and he’s not gonna just sit here and wait on Sam to get back while he feels sorry for himself.

He reaches for the guns. He cleaned them yesterday, but sometimes things need to be cleaned twice.

~*~

Sam pulls up to the curb in a neighborhood that must be what people are picturing in their minds when they use the word ‘ghetto’. He lost count of how many overpasses he went under to get here, and he considers for a moment that leaving the Impala parked there all alone may not be the best idea he’s ever had.

He smiles a little as he shuts her door, allowing a small caress of the handle as it slides shut with a _click_. She belongs to Dean – that’s the way it’s supposed to be - but they’d been through some rough times, her and Sam. Even though he’d never admit it to his brother he’d grown to love her too, in his own way.

“Sorry,” he whispers before he walks away, “Nothing for it.”

Tightly packed rows of ramshackle townhouses rise in front of Sam, strung together with laundry lines and chain link fences. Tiny patches of grassy yards are littered with children’s toys and guarded by the occasional Rottweiler or Pitt Bull, mangy unkempt beasts that Sam feels certain haven’t had their most recent vaccinations.

Sam walks up to the flaking blue door of townhouse number 3168, sidestepping beer bottles and scraps of paper plates and plastic cups as he goes.

When he knocks, the door gives way, swinging open under his touch. Sam goes on alert immediately, reaching for the Taurus tucked into his waistband even as he presses his back into the narrow entry hall.

A quick sweep of the downstairs area reveals nothing but more bottles, some take-out from Panda Express, and an assortment of two-liters shoved into Piggly Wiggly bags. Mismatched, overstuffed La-Z Boy chairs and some Georgia State banners decorate the meager space.

The living room is a mess, but there’s no sign of a struggle.

“Grant?”

Sam angles his aim up the stairs, sighting smoothly down the barrel. He calls to the upper floor. “Grant Fowler? This is the police, just wanna talk to you,” he recites as he moves up the stairway, “Grant?”

Sam clears the bathroom and first bedroom in seconds and sweeps to the second bedroom.

Sam has an instant when time stands still. It lasts no more than the space of a pair of heartbeats, but the pause is plenty of time for Sam to see all he needs to see. His eyes take in the details even while the rest of his senses sweep the room for danger.

A college kid – probably not too much younger than Sam – lies passed out cold on the bed, barely breathing. There is no visible blood near the still form, but next to the bed is a bottle of pills with the cap off, and Sam doesn’t have to take a closer look to know that this kid just took most of them.

Mentally receiving the all-clear, Sam tucks the gun away. The guy matches the picture on Grant Fowler’s drivers’ license, skinny and blond with freckles, and Sam bites back a curse.

“Grant, hey,” Sam reaches for his cell while he feels for the kid’s pulse with his free hand. The pulse is there, but it is slow and faint.

Sam dials 911. He hasn’t left prints and he doesn’t want to be around for the Q and A.

By the time the cops arrive, Sam is long gone.

~*~

Dean seems better - he looks like he’s had a shower at least - he’s wearing a fresh t-shirt and he’s carefully cataloguing their supplies when Sam gets back.

Dean glances up moodily at Sam’s entrance. “Hey.” He grunts, eyeing the dwindling reloading supplies. Sam holds off on his news, because he knows that look.

“We low on somethin’?”

Dean snorts. “Try _everything_. We’re gonna have to resort to dealers soon just for _powder_.”

Sam shakes his head, but he can’t help feeling relieved, because this gives him the perfect opening. He clears his throat and reaches into the paper bag tucked under his arm. He pokes Dean in the ribs with the edges of the package, smiling when Dean’s face shifts from mildly annoyed to curious as he sees it.

“Got us covered.” Sam smirks. “Just so happened, our dead girl’s boyfriend lives in a pretty dealer-friendly neighborhood.”

Dean’s eyes light up. “No kidding? Gimme.” Dean frowns distractedly as he tears into the packaging. “So you talk to the guy or you spend the whole time shopping?”

Sam plunks down on the bed, sliding the 12 gauge Dean’s obviously been polishing to the side to make room. He looks up into his brother’s eyes. “Didn’t get the chance. Guy must have been taking Chrissy’s death pretty hard.”

Sam’s brain registers how distant he is from that same kind of reaction; he knows it should make his heart ache, but that would mean remembering how he felt when … and he … can’t. Won’t.

Dean stills, fingers pausing on the plastic wrapping of the ammunition box in his hands, and he draws a careful breath. Dean feels every death, Sam knows. Even the ones that have nothing to do with their line of work. Funny how they’ve swapped places over the last year and a half.

“He overdosed. Alprazolam.”Sam offers, rushing to spare Dean unnecessary fleeting guilt. “I called the ambulance.”

Dean seems to come off of pause. “That the little blue one?” he asks thoughtfully.

Sam marvels at his life sometimes. “Yeah.”

“Damn. He alive?”

“He was when I left. Thought I’d come get you, then we’d go find out.” Sam replies, but he doesn’t move from the bed, he doesn’t take his eyes off of Dean’s face. He wants to see this. He leans back against the headboard, lacing his fingers behind his neck, and watches lazily through half-lidded eyes.

“Okay,” Dean grunts, as the wrapping finally comes off the box. Sam waits for it. Sure enough, as soon as Dean takes in the large print, his eyes go wide, impossibly green. They don’t quite sparkle, but it’s in there somewhere. Dean whistles. “ _Sammy_.”

Sam knows he’s smirking, but he can’t help it. “Mmm?”

The smile creeps across Dean’s face in slow motion. “Dude,” he whispers, almost reverent, “How’d you find these?”

Sam grins, flashing air quotes. “It’s ‘the ATL’, Dean. They have everything here.” Hunting while being hunted has always called for a lot of supplies, but Sam doesn’t add that the dealer here is a contact of his - someone he met on his way through to Austin last year, while Dean was away. It’s been at least that long since Dean’s been able to shoot the Desert Eagle; It can take a person’s – or a vampire’s – head off with one clean shot.

Sam feels something in his chest relax as Dean nods his approval and starts unpacking the box of 50 caliber bullets into his duffel.

One shot, one kill; no knives. Sam grins a little more. “All set?”

Dean looks down at him, relaxed and confident, excitement in his eyes as he swipes the keys. “After you, Miss Daisy,” he quips, smacking Sam roughly in the shoulder. Sam shrugs him off, heading for the door.

 _Now_ they’re ready for this.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam buries his face in the map while Dean steers the Impala carefully down potholed side streets, taking in the outer fringe of Atlanta with suspicious eyes. “Everybody _waves_ here.”

Sam sniffs, amused. “Is that a problem?”

“No, but some of ‘em remind me of those Deliverance freaks who nearly killed you.” Dean retorts, squinting at a grizzled looking man sitting on the front porch swing of his double-wide. Dean flashes a tight-lipped smile and raises a hand, looking pained.

 _Nearly killed_ you, _you mean_ , Sam thinks as he takes a careful sip of his coffee. “If it bothers you so much, then why do you wave back?”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes and he purses his lips before answering. “Shut up and tell me how to find I-20.”

~*~

They reach Decatur and find the Georgia Regional Hospital after four wrong exits and several loud dissertations from Dean on the timeless battle between MapQuest and road construction, and by the time they find a parking space Sam still isn’t entirely convinced they aren’t at the airport.

Sam takes a steadying breath as they enter the lobby. He hates the smell and feel of hospitals. They reek of loss and grief, but unlike his life they lack the grit and pain, the realism. The atmosphere feels fake and lacquered, layered over with denial. These people fight for their lives lying down. Sam’s not sure if he’s jealous or disgusted.

Dean stalks purposefully over to the admissions counter, projecting the aura of a police officer who means business. Sam hangs back, sticking his hands into the warm pockets of his sweatshirt and trying to think frat boy thoughts. They decided to work two angles on this one, mainly because Dean never wanted to drive out here again.

The receptionist looks bored out of her mind as Dean says hello, and she barely looks at him while she types out her search request. Sam remembers a time when his brother’s voice would have drawn her eyes no matter what her age. When it would have made her blush and duck her head, hide her smile away.

It occurs to Sam that his thinking has been a little bleak lately.

Dean nods his thanks to the receptionist and shoots Sam a glance on his way to the large double doors marked ‘B Wing’. Sam follows at a discreet distance.

They go up a flight of stairs, down a nondescript hall, and skirt a hub of activity where nurses and clerks seem to be fighting for control of the patient charts.

Dean sees the door he’s looking for and motions Sam to wait. Sam swallows tightly, feeling fidgety as Dean disappears down the hall.

Dean won’t need more than 15 minutes to talk to Grant, but 15 minutes seems like an eternity. Sam thinks he should be used to being alone by now; even when they’re in the same room Dean isn’t with him, not really. But Dean is still _there_ , just outside of reach, and if only Sam can find a way to be what Dean needs him to be, then maybe they can be them again. Maybe Sam can be _Sam_ again.

Sam shakes his head in frustration. The faint presence of power burns in his veins, begging to be used. He feels trapped in his own frame, caged. The soft beeps of monitors and the sterile smell of disinfectant are making Sam’s skin crawl.

He needs something to distract himself.

Sam pushes away from the wall with a huff, shoves his hands in his pockets, and takes off purposefully in the opposite direction that Dean took. He lengthens his stride, releasing some of his pent-up energy in his quest to get to nowhere in particular.

Sam follows an inner sense of direction, drawn to a less populated space. He walks into a waiting room sparsely populated with rigid chairs and old faded magazines, and he stops.

Speaking in low tones at the reception desk are two Detectives and one Decatur Sherriff’s Deputy.

 _Huh_.

Sam reaches out to the nearest nurse’s aide, a petite girl with short dark hair and too much green eye shadow, taps her on the shoulder, and flashes the grin he knows shows off his dimples. “You wouldn’t be someone I could ask about what’s going on here, could you, uh …” he checks her nametag, “Rachel?”

She blushes right away, looking down at the floor and shoving her hands into her scrub pockets. “Well,” she whispers conspiratorially, “I don’t think I am. But you could always ask the police.”

“I’m Sam,” he says. “I have a friend here – down the hall, actually. I just wanted to make sure there’s no trouble.” Sam leans a little closer and spreads his hands wide, innocent. “Besides,” he grins, “Maybe I’d rather ask you.”

She blushes, chews her lip. She won’t meet his eyes, but she leans until she’s hovering just inside Sam’s bubble. “There’s been an incident in the psychiatry ward.”

Sam tilts his head, curious. “An incident?” He asks. He catches her gaze, locks their eyes together.

 _Come on, sweetheart, tell me what you know._

Rachel blinks, shakes her head like she’s confused. “Uh …”

Sam smiles an encouraging smile.

 _Go on.  
_  
“Well,” she starts, hesitant at first, “we have a ward here that’s an offshoot of a local institution. Sometimes the more … well, the more psychotic patients … well, it’s not their fault. But sometimes they injure themselves, and they get transferred here.”

Sam lets his eyes widen. “I hope they aren’t dangerous!”

Rachel puts one hand against her heart and holds her other palm flat out to Sam as though she wants to reassure him. “Oh, no, not at all! It’s a locked floor – there’s no danger to your friend,” she offers. “It’s just …” She looks down the hallway nervously, swirling one finger absently in the tips of her shortly cropped hair. Her eyes flicker to Sam, uncertain.

 _Come on, Rachel. You can trust me._

“Can you keep a secret?” she blurts, pushing out the words before she can change her mind. She doesn’t wait for Sam to answer, just motions him closer. He obliges, leaning so his ear is near her lips. She smells like Lysol, but underneath that ... honeysuckle and mint, maybe.

Rachel has to step onto her tiptoes to reach him, and she steadies herself on his shoulder. Her breath skims his skin, and Sam can almost hear her heart beating in nervous flutters. “One of them,” she whispers, “went missing.” She waits a beat and then adds, “But it happened like a month ago; they’re just here to follow up. So, don’t worry about your friend, OK?”

Sam blinks in surprise, but he recovers himself quickly, schooling his expression into something a little more indifferent. He hitches one shoulder, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Oh. Well. I’m sure they’ll find him soon.”

Rachel nods absently, staring somewhere near Sam’s midsection as he stretches. Carefully he asks her one last thing. “He got a name?”

She sounds like she’s in a trance, and she answers automatically. “Stephen Wright.”

Sam grins and steps back, severing the connection smoothly. Rachel blinks, squinting at him like she’s never seen him before. “Thank you for your time,” he says, nodding gratefully. “Have a nice day.”

Sam picks the hallway opposite the psych ward, and from somewhere behind him he barely hears her stutter, “You, too.”

~*~

It’s been way more than 15 minutes by the time Sam finally gets back to Grant’s hall. Dean practically jumps up from his chair, grabbing Sam by the elbow and steering him for the nearest exit.

“Where have you been?” Dean demands.

Sam blinks. He’s not exactly sure, actually – probably couldn’t find the place again if he tried. “I went for a walk,” he replies automatically. “Find out anything from Grant?”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Nope. Coma.” He sighs. “Doctors think he might wake up in a few days. Guess we can talk to him then, but that cuts our leads kinda short for now.” Dean cranes his neck, meeting Sam with a curious gaze.

“Anything else happen?”

Sam snorts. “Some guy broke out of the psych ward.”

Dean stops walking. “Really? They just tell you that?”

Sam waves a hand in dismissal. “Kind of. Listen. I’ve been thinking.”

Dean frowns in mock concern. “You OK?”

Sam is a saint, that’s what. A saint. With a phenomenal new super power that enables him to resist rolling his eyes. “Shut up. Look, if we can’t talk to Grant yet, there’s always other stuff we could do.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, already loosening his tie with one hand. “Such as?”

Sam smiles, slow and eager. “We go hunting.”

~*~

Despite his earlier enthusiasm, Sam quickly realizes that canvassing the local bars around a University the size of Georgia State is more of a pain than anything, and the time is just about midnight when he finally lets Dean call a time-out.

They crash in the corner of a loud karaoke restaurant, and Sam orders them both burgers over the dulcet tones of a drunken sorority girl belting out Carrie Underwood’s “ _Before He Cheats_.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at Dean when she hits the chorus. “I feel bad for that guy,” he half-yells across the booth.

Dean grins around his burger, shrugging his shoulders. “Nah, don’t. At least he won’t have to take her back.”

“Heh. I guess.” Sam sighs and rubs his fingers into his eyelids, wondering when he quit being used to not getting any sleep. “Something’s been bugging me,” he offers. Dean tilts his head in question, giving Sam the go-ahead to ask. “They had Chrissy for two weeks, right?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Then why weren’t there any bruises? Drugs? You think she just sat there and let them drain her without putting up a fight?”

Dean throws Sam a nasty smirk. “Maybe she read that Twilight crap one too many times.”

Sam just stares, because … that’s not funny, it’s _not_.

Dean waits a beat, and then rolls his eyes like he’s stating the obvious. “Ropes and chains leave marks, Sam. If you wanted an unmarked body, you’d do what you were gonna do with the girl, then leave her to heal for a day or two before killing her. If there’s a bruise, it’s gone.” Dean seems totally indifferent as he chews his burger.

Sam thinks Dean sounds like he knows what he’s talking about, but he doesn’t want to think too much about why. He settles for focusing on the job at hand, because … because that’s how they deal. And because no matter what Dean says or knows now, Sam isn’t afraid of his brother.

“So, what we _should_ be asking is where they were keeping her.”

“It’d have to be a place where they could keep the victims locked up, somewhere safe where they couldn’t hurt themselves.” Dean says.

Sam nods absently. He’s been running over locations in his mind, but there just isn’t anything around the college but apartments, and it all seems way too high traffic for a nest, and there’s still the pull of this case, the feeling he keeps having that something’s not quite …

“C’mon, let’s hit the sack. We can look tomorrow when all the drunken rednecks are busy sleeping off their hangovers.” Dean interrupts Sam’s thoughts, pushing back from the table and standing up to stretch.

Sleep sounds good, maybe better than it has in a long time. One last look around the bar provides no additional reason to stay. “Yeah. Okay.”

They’re back at the motel within an hour, and Dean kicks off his boots and collapses gratefully into bed without brushing his teeth or _anything_. Sam shakes his head, calls Dean unsophisticated, and heads for the shower.

Sam waits until he’s sure Dean is asleep before he heads to bed himself. He stops long enough to carefully pull his brother’s comforter up to his shoulders.

Sam doesn’t trust the angels, and he’s not sure he believes in God anymore. If he was sure, he’d be twice as certain that no one would listen to _him_ , but he still prays that tonight will be the night that Dean will sleep free of the terrors of Hell.

He still prays, just in case.

~*~

Dean dreams in hues of red and orange. Streaks of blood and tongues of fire call to him from deep inside, from the place where he keeps himself hidden. During the day he’s Dean Winchester, hero, savior, soldier, refugee – but at night, in his dreams, he’s the _dicipulus_ , apprentice to the master of pain and anguish.

At night, he sees the souls of the damned spread out underneath his fingertips. He caresses them with his blades softly, knowing just how far to take them before they shatter into a thousand colors like stained glass. He paints each canvas with care, and he smiles, satisfaction rising up inside him as he listens to them sing.

Beside him, he hears the voice of his leader, his teacher, whispering: _Good, Dean. Almost there now. Soon we’ll set you free. Soon…  
_  
Dean revels in the voice, tilts his head towards it, thinks how much he owes the speaker. His life, he thinks, he owes his life. _Whatever you need me to be_ , he responds. _Use me_.

Blood is sticky and slick on his hands; under his nails, it slides through the crevices in his fingertips like a bubbling stream.

 _Soon_ , his savior says, gazing fondly at his finest creation. _Soon, you’ll be ready for earth.  
_


	5. Chapter 5

“Rise and shine, Sammy!”

Sam jerks into a half-sitting position, adrenaline pumping. It’s a full 30 seconds before he realizes that it isn’t Tuesday, it isn’t 2008 anymore and Dean is never going to Hell again. His fingers are curled into the bed sheets in a tight grip, and he makes himself slowly let go. Sam takes a deep breath, forcibly relaxing as Dean turns away from the bright light streaming in from the pale blue curtains. He flops back down with a sigh.

Dean frowns instantly. “Hey,” he asks, “You alright?”

Sam groans and pulls his covers back over his head, ignoring the smell of fresh coffee in favor of hiding from the harsh glare of the sun. “Time’s it?” he slurs.

“Eight. Get up. Got a lead.”

Sam feels a tug on his bed spread, and he peeks one eye out from under the covers. “A lead,” he echoes. “Really.”

“Really,” Dean says.

It’s clear that Dean hasn’t slept well, if at all, but he’s masking his weariness in that special way that only Dean can. Sam feels a pulse of anger.

So much for answered prayers.

Sam sits up reluctantly and blinks the sleep from his eyes. Dean looks tired, but he’s projecting an air of busy confidence. Sam takes the offered coffee with resignation. He tries one more time. “ _Really_?”

Dean laughs, and ok, maybe that’s worth getting out of bed for. Sam sighs one more time for good measure and swings his legs over the side of the bed, rolling out the kinks in his shoulders as he goes.

“Fine. Hit me.”

Dean’s lips twitch a little. “Maybe later. In the meantime, check this out.” Dean takes a seat in the cramped chair near the laptop and motions Sam over with a wave of his hand.

Sam shuffles closer, his curiosity getting the better of him. He sips his coffee carefully as Dean pulls up some articles.

“Ok, so the other three stiffs you tracked were all found around here, but they were from all over, right?”

“Yeah, one was even from … New York?” Sam agrees, wracking his sleepy brain for details.

Dean nods the affirmative. “New York, Ohio, and Alabama. Totally random states. Chrissy was the first local.” Dean leans back in his chair, stretching. It’s an old habit, and it always makes Sam cringe even though Dean has never fallen; or broken a chair, for that matter. Still, Sam finds himself automatically setting down his coffee to grab the back of the frame and brace his brother up, just in case.

“It makes sense that a nest would want to grab out-of-towners, and a lot of people vacation around here.” Dean frowns his disapproval. “I have no idea what for, but they do.”

Sam beams sarcastically. “They have whale sharks!”

“Whale sharks are … big,” Dean grudgingly concedes. “And they have Coke world. I guess. But anyway,” Dean waves a dismissive hand, “I was thinking, the tourists are fair game, but why Chrissy? What’s their angle with her?”

“Okaay,” Sam draws out slowly, “So, find anything?”

Dean bites his lip in concentration, clicking through several web pages before hitting on the one he wants. “Ha. There, look at that.”

Sam leans in. On the screen is a memorial page dedicated to Chrissy, courtesy of the Georgia State student union. There are messages from several of her friends, virtual flowers and other small tributes, and several pictures. Dean selects a specific picture and enlarges it.

There is Christina Chambers, smiling and full of life, not one month ago. She’s surrounded by friends and holding a drink, her hair is twisted in to long braids and she has a black choker with a hanging purple jewel around her neck. Her friends are dressed much the same, dark eyeliner and lipstick vivid against pale skin.

Sam frowns. The picture is too close-up to see the décor very well, but the colors in the background … “Goth club?”

Dean laces his fingers behind his neck, leaning further back to look up into Sam’s eyes. Sam grunts and thinks about just letting the chair fall over. “I think they were all there at one point or another. Checking out –” Dean makes air quotes right in Sam’s face. “– _the scene_.”

Sam stares at Dean for a full ten seconds before stating, “Dude, I’m dropping you. I want my coffee back.”

Dean chuckles and leans forward, leaving Sam to shake his fingers until feeling returns, and pulls up a different page. “I looked up the club owner, too. Here, check this out.”

On the screen is a picture of a man who looks to be in his forties. He has mid-length dark hair and piercing pale eyes, and he’s standing outside the ornate wrought-iron door of what seems like a club located somewhere in downtown Atlanta if the skyscrapers nearby are any indication. The man is well dressed, a suit and tie type from the looks of things, but …

Sam feels his hand tighten around his Styrofoam cup. This is the thing, the pull he’s been feeling this whole time. There’s something not right about the case, and something in the man’s eyes is rubbing Sam the wrong way, some kind of coldness, maybe, or knowledge.

“Who is he?”He asks, feeling a little bit breathless but trying not to let it show.

Dean shakes his head in disgust. “I’m not sure, but the guy calls himself _Dante_. Got set up here about a year ago. His club is the biggest Goth scene in Atlanta, and here’s one for a genius – club’s called _Inferno_.” Dean stares at the screen like he’s personally offended at the man’s lack of originality.

“You’d think with all the Billy-Bobs, Bubbas and John Deer groupies around here, this guy wouldn’t have many clients,” Dean says, looking thoughtful. “And I can’t imagine that karaoke princess from the bar last night squeezing into a leather miniskirt, can you?” He stares off into space, distracted by his own mental imagery. From where Sam is standing, whatever Dean’s picturing must not be very appealing.

“That’s our guy,” Sam says quietly. “I know it.”

“He does have a night job.” Dean frowns, peering at Sam from the corners of his eyes. “You think it’s his nest? That’s a little cliché, don’t you think?”

Sam shakes his head, narrowing his eyes as he studies the picture. “I’m … I don’t know. But he knows something.”  
“You think so?” Dean asks, keeping his voice casual but not quite hiding his skepticism.

Sam nods. “I’m sure of it. We’ll talk to him tonight.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, if you say so.” Dean pushes up out of the tiny chair and heads for the dresser and his keys. “Come on, might as well get breakfast.”

Sam nods absently, taking one last look at the man on the computer screen. Dante seems dark, confident.

Suddenly it hits Sam where he’s seen it before - that look that Dante has in his eyes. It’s the same look Sam sees every morning in the mirror.

“Sam, you comin’?” Dean calls from the doorway. Sam nods, tearing himself away from the image. Dean grins, brimming enthusiasm. “If you behave, maybe I’ll even let you see the whale sharks.”

Somewhere out there, Lilith is still breaking seals and soon the world will burn in Hell fire.

Sam chuckles. Might as well see the whale sharks while he has a chance.

~*~

Deep heavy bass and minor chords stream out from the club, crashing against Sam in waves. He steps disdainfully to the side as several young women stumble past wearing next to nothing. The middle one heaves a little, clawing at the sides of her tightly fitted corset as she races her friends to the car. At his side, Dean makes a low whistle.

“Wow. I mean, _yikes_.” Dean whispers.

“Careful Dean, you’ll start sounding old or something.” Sam says as if he can’t see what Dean sees; as if he doesn’t sense the darkness surrounding this place like a shroud. The open door is a black wrought iron design of twisting metal flames, and the dark entrance ripples deep inside with red and yellow lights.

“I think those were bigger than the whale sharks,” Dean quips.

Sam glances at Dean sideways.

Dean straightens his tie, smooths his jacket, and reaches for his badge. It’s dark in the street outside Inferno, but Sam can still see the tightness in his brother’s jaw and in the set of his shoulders.

Sam doesn’t want Dean in there.

Sam rolls his shoulders and makes his choice. Dean has the Desert Eagle, and at Sam’s insistence, he has Ruby’s knife as well. They always argue over it but after Halloween, Dean never wins that fight. Dean needs to be armed if they run into a demon, and even if they both agreed to _no more powers_ the fact is that they’re still _there_ , and Sam can stand on his own if push comes to shove.

Sam nods firmly to himself. They go in together. But…

“Let me take the lead on this one,” Sam says, blocking Dean’s way into the club.

Dean’s eyes narrow, flicking from Sam to the rippling flame-like entryway and back again. Something Dean sees in Sam’s eyes causes him to relax a fraction.

Dean rolls his eyes and makes a broad sweeping gesture towards the door. “Ladies first.”

Sam’s blood pulses to the beat of the music as he steps over the threshold. Deep inside, his prowling hunger flares to life in response. This is a place where the innocents are bright lights against the sea of tainted souls, few and far between, and somewhere within these walls is the origin: the source of the pull Sam has been fighting on this one for months. He can feel it.

Sam lets his determination fall over him like a mask. His heart slows and his hands are steady. He walks through the door one step ahead of his brother.

Anything evil in there that wants Dean is going to have to go through Sam first.

They stay close as they move through the crowd, more out of habit and training than any sense of urgency. Sam cuts through the press of bodies easily, towering over most of them. He prefers the authoritarian FBI to their usual aliases, because it frees him up to use his size to his advantage.

At the end of the narrow entryway, the club opens up into a multi-level sea of slightly organized chaos. Off to the right, the dance floor is packed with bodies pressed together in rhythmic undulation, moving across polished black wood. The lights above mimic the glow of fire, and the dancers raise their hands to the heat as though offering themselves to the flames.

Sam turns to check on Dean and finds his brother glaring at the dance floor in open disgust.

“Hey,” Sam says, gripping Dean’s shoulder firmly, “You with me?”

Dean nods, his eyes set and angry. “Idiots,” he growls.

Sam nods tightly. “C’mon, let’s try and find Dante.”

They shoulder their way to the bar. Crystal glasses line the mirrored wall behind the counter, catching the orange light and throwing fractals of color over the occupants sitting there. A well muscled man wearing a black trench coat with rolled-up sleeves tends the bar, and he eyes them both suspiciously as they approach.

Sam flashes his badge brusquely. “Agent Tomlin, FBI Tell me where I can find Dante.” Dean shifts, giving Sam a ‘ _dude, subtle much_?’ kind of look, and Sam pointedly ignores him.

The bartender freezes for an instant and then smirks widely, pouring a drink for a middle-aged woman in bright green cyber dreads without even looking at her. He leans forward, appraising Sam with raised eyebrows as though he didn’t quite hear him. Sam holds up a printed picture of the club owner and points to it, repeating himself forcefully.  
“ _Dante_.”

“Dante ain’t here,” Trench Coat Bartending Dude yells over the noise of the crowd, an amused look on his face. “He ever comes around, I don’t see him. Manager’s here; name’s Cat.”

Sam nods grimly and Dean chimes in, flashing his badge as well. “And where can we find her?”

The guy points with his chin to the club’s upper level, hands busy with mixing drinks. “VIP room, upstairs!”

They nod their thanks and turn away, bumping into several scantily clad bodies in the process. Sam takes a deep breath and fights down a surge of very strong annoyance. Dean mutters something about _psycho 5th Element rejects_ and how _Mila Jovovich is the only woman alive that can pull off wearing just saran wrap_.

Sam climbs the iron stairwell leading to the second floor, welcoming the press of Dean’s shoulder at his side. The vaulted loft above is a completely different scene from the chaos below. Lavish tapestries and dark velvet curtains adorn the stone walls, and the weight of the fabric lends to the feel of heaviness in the room. The narrow passage seems confined, close. Sam feels it again, stronger than ever.

The pull is coming from up there. Sam pauses, one hand on the rail, his heart suddenly leaping for his throat.

“ _Mask of the Red Death_ ,” Sam murmurs in awe, breathing through the apprehension in his chest.

Dean frowns. “What?”

Dean’s voice startles Sam out of his reverie. “It just reminds me of …Uh. Nothing. Let’s go.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dean sticks close to Sam as they wind their way up the twisting spiral staircase. He’s more bothered by this place than he cares to admit, but not because it reminds him of Hell.

From above he sees the dancers twist and sway, writhing to the beat. In his mind he sees what they would look like under his blade, and the dark voice of his dreams whispers smugly to them, asking if this is everything they dreamed of.

 _Do you feel like dancing now?  
_  
Dean turns his eyes away, fighting a sudden wave nausea. Sam glances back to check on him, _freakishly attuned as always_ , Dean thinks. But Sam’s eyes are open and unguarded, and Dean is taken aback by the frank vulnerability on Sam’s face.

Sam is starting to freak.

 _Fantastic.  
_  
They stare at each other for an instant, like they are having a wordless wrestling match over whose turn it is to be the strong one. Dean blinks and before he knows it he’s lost the fight - the shutters slam down again, and Sam is back in charge.

Sam cants his head, peering intently. “Y – you ok?”

Dean nods, steeling himself. He doesn’t need to focus on the … wait … _What’s_ Sam _freaked out for_?

Dean doesn’t get a chance to ask. Sam has already turned to continue up the stairs, and from the set of his shoulders, Dean can tell that Sam is already gone – replaced by Agent Tomlin, FBI.

They gain the top of the stairs and move down a short hallway. Already the pounding vibrations from the club below seem far away. Dean relaxes into the relative silence, getting his head back into the game. This next part is easy. Project confidence, ask some questions, do the job, get out. Piece of cake.

The hall opens up into a large room. In contrast to the black polished wood and flashing lights of downstairs the floor is thickly carpeted in deep red, and ornate walnut pieces of furniture adorn the lounge.

The patrons here are slower, almost graceful. Instead of thin strips of pleather and black lipstick, they wear suits and gowns. The women seem to almost float across the Hall as they move, corsets and taffeta shimmering in the soft candle light. Some wear delicately crafted collars and keep their eyes aimed respectfully to the floor. Others sit straight-backed in tall chairs and absentmindedly run their manicured nails through the hair of their younger men, kneeling in the dense carpet at their feet.

The older men hold themselves with a kind of raw grace and poise. Dean would say they seem silly with their frilled, old-world style dress. It reminds him of a flock of colorblind butterflies. He would say that … if it wasn’t for the _feel_ of them.

Edgy. Dangerous.

Everyone in the room glides to a smooth halt, almost in one motion, when Sam softly clears his throat. Dark eyes and leather colored masks turn to regard the brothers, and Sam squares his shoulders with determination.

“We’d like to speak with Cat, please,” Sam says. Sam’s voice is quiet but firm, and Dean feels it settle over the crowd like a blanket.

The group shifts, sharing uncertain glances. Dean is just starting to get that creepy hive mind feel when a few people near the back of the room step aside, allowing a woman through.

This woman doesn’t walk, she _advances_.

The crowd gives way to her and she crosses the entire length of the Hall to meet them. She’s tall, probably almost as tall as Dean on a normal day, but as it is she towers over him in her thigh-high lace-up boots, damn near looking Sam in the eyes.

She doesn’t seem surprised to see them.

“Agent Tomlin, FBI,” Sam states. Dean thinks maybe Sam just _really_ likes saying that or something, because, _dude, enough already_. “We’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if that’s alright.”

Something about her seems ancient, maybe, but Dean doesn’t think that kind of stuff. He just knows she’s some kind of bad news – their kind or not.

Cat tilts her head to the side, pursing her deep red lips as she inspects Sam, running her gaze all over him before responding, “Of course.” She smiles wide, the white glimmer of her teeth almost predatory. “Anything I can do to help.”

Cat’s eyes glitter in the dim glow, deep golden-brown. Dean finds himself entranced by them, by the way they shine. Her long dark hair flows in loose ringlets over a deep purple bodice, and she is wearing a black bustled skirt that is short in the front but flows down and out, leaving a train behind.

She turns to regard Dean, and he feels himself grow still under her gaze. Her _eyes_ are just so _deep_ , and she seems so …

Suddenly Dean’s view is blocked by a giant shoulder in a black suit, and it takes him a second to realize that Sam has stepped between them. His brother is radiating tension that anyone else looking at Sam could easily mistake for determination, but Dean knows better.

Sam’s voice becomes strong and commanding. “Good. We’d like to speak with your boss.”

Cat laughs, swirling a long-stemmed crystal wine glass casually in one hand. The deep ruby liquid catches the light and throws pink-tinged shadows onto her pale skin. Her laugh seems to reverberate through the Hall, and the crowd around them takes a cue from her ease, returning to their various conversations.

“Sorry boys,” she sighs, sticking out her lower lip in a fake pout. “Dante isn’t here, and even if he was, he wouldn’t see you, I’m afraid. See, he likes his privacy.”

Sam opens his mouth, no doubt to say something brilliant in lawyer-speak, but Dean cuts him off. Pulling out a printed copy of the picture of Chrissy with her friends, Dean holds it up to Cat and asks, “You ever seen this girl here?”

Cat squints at the glossy paper and frowns. She shakes her head, tossing her dark hair. “Doesn’t ring a bell, Agent …?”

“Bloom,” Dean supplies smoothly. Just because Sam is going all off-track doesn’t mean he has to. “Are you sure?”

When Cat nods the affirmative, Sam makes a disbelieving scoffing noise deep in the back of his throat. Dean keeps his expression carefully blank, but Cat doesn’t seem to notice. “We get a lot of kids in here, Agent Bloom,” she continues. “A lot. They all dress alike and they all act the same. None of them ever come up those stairs, so no, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her… for whatever it’s worth.”

Sam shifts, reaching into his jacket pocket. “We’d like to talk to Dante,” he insists, handing Cat a printed card. “Tell him to give us a call soon.”

She toys with the black chain of her necklace for a long moment, thinking it over as she stares at Sam thoughtfully.  
Finally, she extends her porcelain arm, accepting the number.

“Alright,” she agrees. “I’m sure he will find you interesting, Agent Tomlin. Have a wonderful evening,” she grins, “Don’t get into trouble out there.”

Dean finds himself listening to the hypnotic _swish_ of the long swath of fabric trailing behind her as she walks away.

~*~

As soon as they clear _Inferno_ , Sam can finally breathe again. Dean seems to want to put space between himself and the club just as badly, so Sam lets his brother lead the way, content to trail behind and keep his growing apprehension to himself. He loosens his tie and tells himself they’re clear - at least for now.

Still, Sam hasn’t been so glad to see the Impala in a while.

He sinks gratefully into the passenger’s seat, mimicking Dean’s movements unconsciously as they both get settled. Dean places the key in the ignition but he doesn’t start the car; and that’s when Sam knows he isn’t the only one who noticed something strange back there.

Dean turns to Sam with slightly widened eyes, confused. “Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell was that back there?” Dean drops his hands into his lap and stares at them, unseeing as he replays their outing in his mind. “I mean, there was something definitely off about that Cat chick, right? I’m not just …” Dean trails off suddenly, and Sam feels the silence settle hard in his gut.

 _No, you’re not just crazy. You’re not imagining things, you aren’t broken. You’re my brother, no matter what happened to you._

Sam tries to frame his words gently. He’d seen the way Dean stared with open horror at the mass of lost souls on the dance floor, begging for Hell to come and burn their crappy lives away. Sam knows how much Dean can’t reconcile _powers_ with _brother_ , but he also knows what he felt in there, and he knows Dean needs to know, too.

“Dean … that upper hall – that was our group.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, throwing Sam a sideways glance. “Yeah? Because of the creepy evil vibe?”

 _At the top of the stairs, the pull is stronger than ever. The whole room shimmers with a kind of still energy, tingling molecules of substance begging to be called to life. It’s power, power like Sam has never felt. It surrounds him, bolsters him, and calls his name.  
_  
“Yeah. Something like that.” Sam shakes his head, thinking of crystal glasses with sparkling ruby liquid inside. “If they really are vampires, they aren’t like any I’ve ever seen.”

Dean frowns, staring at Sam like he wants to ask what Sam’s not telling him, but then he shrugs his shoulders and reaches for the key, firing the engine up.

“Yeah, well, I’m with ya there,” Dean agrees instead. “You hungry? I’m starving. Let’s get outta here.”

Sam nods, turning away to stare out the window into the night. He chews on a fingernail, trying to ignore the rumble in his own stomach.

He tries not to think about how helpless he feels, how loudly the tendrils of power had spoken to him, or about sparkling crystal glasses with Ruby’s red liquid inside.

~*~

Dean watches Sam carefully through dinner. Sam seems distracted, and not by the case. Something else is bothering him, and Dean can’t put his finger on it, and every time he tries to send a feeler out it feels like he’s coming up against a wall.

Suddenly, Dean finds himself wondering where his little brother went.

Maybe it happened on the road the last few months, maybe it happened even before that and Dean just didn’t notice because he was too busy drinking his terror away. Sam had been a solid presence beside him, and he’d been grateful for the silence then, but now …

Dean can practically hear Sam thinking across the booth. That’s never a good thing, because even though Sam is like, super-genius smart, once the thinking goes internal Dean tends to get cut out of the process.

So naturally, the thing to do is whack Sam across the shoulder with a rolled up copy of the day’s news.

“Ow.” Sam automatically responds, tossing Dean a nasty look.

“If that hurt you, we need to spar more.” Dean retorts. “What’s up with you, anyway? You’re thinking so hard they can hear it in the next _county_.”

Sam shrugs, absently using his fork to push his green beans around the edges of his plate. His eyes flicker with something indiscernible, but when he looks back to Dean, the brief shadows are gone.

Sam gives Dean a grin that doesn’t reach past his dimples and says, “Maybe you should get ear plugs.”

Dean scoffs a little, sets down the paper, and goes back to his burger and fries. Last night, he’d woken with a start not two hours after falling asleep in the first place with his heart pounding in his chest. Dean had told himself that he was safe and Alistair was gone for good, repeating it like a mantra over and over until his breathing evened out.

After that, he’d watched Sam sleep and tried to let the stillness wash over him. Sam had seemed carved out of stone. Even his brother’s unconscious breaths seemed focused. Somehow, it didn’t quite bring the old familiar peace Dean had been looking for.

Sam picks up the paper that Dean discarded, leafing through it absently in lieu of actually eating food. Dean watches his brother’s hazel eyes scan the pages with a steady scrutiny, analyzing and processing the information with an efficiency that Dean finds unnerving. Three weeks from now, he wonders if Sam will still remember how many degrees it is outside according to page four.

Dean knows the second Sam hits on something interesting from the way even the small movements Sam was making go stock-still. Dean puts his chin in his hands, props his elbows up on the table, and waits while Sam goes back and reads it twice.

Finally Sam’s eyebrows go up and Dean knows it’s time to interrupt.

“Dude. What.”

Sam hands the paper over quietly, confusion evident in his eyes.

Dean scans the open page impatiently. There are plenty of the normal tragic headlines; four killed by drunk driver, teacher arrested for drug possession, gang uprising an imminent possibility … Dean stares at a small headline near the bottom right corner. “What the … Is this the guy from the hospital?”

“Stephen Wright,” Sam murmurs.

Stephen Francis Wright, age 43. Missing from Georgia Regional for over a month -and found dead in the woods outside Atlanta yesterday morning with a slashed throat.

Dean drops the paper and stares at his brother, slightly gratified to see Sam staring back just as helplessly. “Sammy, this ain’t vampires,” Dean groans.

Sam snorts a half-laugh, running a hand erratically through his tousled hair, making it worse for his trouble. “You don’t say.”

Dean ignores the sarcasm. He can do that, because Sam has always been sarcastic. He’s having a little bit tougher of a time just now ignoring the fact that Sam looks a little bit pale.

Instead he runs through scenarios in his head. “So, some psycho Jack The Ripper wannabe grabs a crazy guy … and?” And _what_?

 _And killed him_ , answers the hunger deep inside. Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Sam settles back into his chair as well, tossing his hands around. “I don’t know, man, we need to re-think this whole thing.”

Dean nods. “Ok, what’s the tie between the victims? I mean, to break into a locked ward – there’s gotta be something special about this dude, right? Or maybe this isn’t our kinda case after all.”

Sam’s eyes go dark again, and God, Dean hates that. If he didn’t know better, he’d be reaching for the holy water. Still, how they do that without ever changing color at all, it’s unnerving. “No. No, it is. I know it is, we just have to look into it more. Dean, we have to.”

Dean stares uselessly at his brother, wishing he knew the reason for Sam’s quietly frantic tone. “Ok,” he agrees instead, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Someone needs to go back to the club. And –“

Dean is cut off short by the sound of his cell, and he answers it without looking at the screen, still taking stock of the way Sam is radiating nerves.

“Hello?”

The voice from the other end asks if this is Officer Duncan, and Dean grins a little as he answers yes. By the time he hangs up, Sam is drumming his fingers impatiently on the grimy counter top. Sam raises his eyebrows, ‘ _Well_?’ implied.

“That was the hospital. Grant’s awake. I guess I should take him, and you –“

“No way. We stick together on this one, Dean, I mean it.” Sam’s voice is steady, but his eyes go big and pleading. Dean is about to call him on it and ask him if he’s five years old, but then he remembers the whole Sam looking just a little pale thing, and how Sam looked freaked back at the club on the stairs, and any thoughts of teasing Sam go out the window.

“Ok,” Dean soothes. He looks at his watch. By the time they make it to the hospital it will be nearly eleven, but he doubts they’d make him wait considering the circumstances. The nurse had said to come any time, and Sam is practically brimming with impatience. “We’ll go now.”


	7. Chapter 7

Dean parks just outside the circular ambulance drive-through. The parking lot is mostly empty, but there are a few cars; lonely representatives of families holding vigils in hard plastic chairs.

Dean reaches for the glove box only to find Sam already holding out the correct badge for him and he takes it with a half-smile. He throws the door open, glad that because of the late hour and the circumstances of the hospital’s call he didn’t have to change back into the suit and tie.

Subconsciously he checks himself, feeling the reassuring weight of the 1911 at his back and the smooth press of Ruby’s knife against his forearm. Sam follows quietly behind until they reach the hospital threshold, and that’s when Dean notices Sam’s not following anymore.

Dean pauses in the automatic doorway. “You comin’?”

Sam is lingering just outside reach of the lobby’s fluorescent lighting, right at the edge of the shadows. His earlier tension is still evident from the lines in his forehead and the way he’s fidgeting. “I think I’ll wait here,” Sam says hopefully, his voice rising a little towards the end like he wants to make it a question. “They don’t know me, anyway. I’ll just … I’ll wait in the lobby, ok?” Unsure, like he’s convincing himself.

Dean doesn’t like the way the shadows are holding Sam. He fights his anxiety down with some effort. _It’s the hospital parking lot, for cryin’ out loud. Not some crossroads. Get a hold of yourself._

“Eh. Whatever floats your boat, dude. Stay out of trouble.” Dean flashes a confident grin and tosses Sam the keys. Sam smiles and pushes past Dean. He takes the chair closest to the door.

When Dean gets back, he’s so calling Sam on being off his game.

~*~

Dean has only been gone for about five minutes, but it already seems like eternity before Sam bolts from the chair to stretch his legs. Dean being gone for eternity isn’t really something Sam wants to think about, but he doesn’t want to think about the case anymore either, and so he does what he always does when he’s thinking too much and he goes for a walk.

Except the last time he went for a walk here he just happened to accidentally uncover new information, and he doesn’t want to feel any more tied to this case than he already does, so he heads for the parking lot instead.

A few minutes later and Sam is leaning against the Impala with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Nearly midnight now, and the air here has a slight bite to it that’s chilled but heavy, and a sharp tangy scent is blowing in from the marshlands. Sam closes his eyes and just concentrates on breathing.

He’s so caught up in the search for tranquility that he almost misses it: the subtle shift in temperature, the slight flickering of the light above his head.

But he doesn’t miss it, not entirely, because this is what Sam’s whole life has narrowed down to: kill or be killed.

Sam really doesn’t have any plans to die tonight.

~*~

Most of the rooms are dark as Dean makes his way down the hall, but the light is on in Grant’s room. There is a nurse with him, charting his vitals and looking in a harassed way at the beeper on her hip. She must be the one who called because when Dean flashes his badge, he doesn’t have to say anything by way of explanation, she just tells him she’ll leave them alone and disappears.

Dean smirks a little. He can never decide if getting in too easy makes him glad or if it makes him want to weep for humanity.

Grant seems a little less dead now than the last time Dean saw him. He blinks miserably up at Dean through red-rimmed watery eyes and blows out a sigh.

His speech is slurred and soft, laced over with a quiet despair and heavy on the sarcasm. “Wha’can I do for you, _Officer_?”

Dean winces at the memory of Sam’s voice sounding like that.

 _I_ told _you. I don’t know how the fire started. I just came home and …_

Suddenly Dean feels a rush of sympathy for the guy. Instead of his usual no-nonsense question-and-answer routine, he pulls up a chair and looks Grant in the eyes. They’re blue.

“How you holdin’ up, Grant?”

Grant scoffs loudly. “She’s dead and I’m not. How do you think?”

 _Guy tried to kill himself. She’s dead and I’m not. How the hell do you think I feel._

Dean swallows hard. He’s not good at the sympathizing gig – that’s Sam’s thing – but he really can relate. A lot. “Look, I know … and you just have to trust me, I _know_ what it feels like to lose someone,” Dean says, letting for once the scars of his life show in his eyes. “And I want to help them nail the guys that did this, I do. But I need you to help me. Can you do that?”

Grant nods slowly, comprehension dawning as he accepts Dean’s words. “Ask … ask me anything.”

Dean sits up straighter in his chair. There is really only one thing he needs to know, and that’s the _why_ part. Sam seems pretty certain about the _who_ , and the _how_ only comes after the _why_.

“Was there anything different about Chrissy before she disappeared? Anything that maybe she was struggling with, anything she’d tell you but not her friends?”

Grant frowns, struggling to focus. He’s clearly tired and confused, but he’s trusting Dean, he takes the time to think long and hard before he answers.

“Chris had these … well, like, headaches. I guess they were weird. I mean, she called them nightmares, but … sometimes she’d have them during the day, and she didn’t talk about them much, but sometimes,” Grant closes his eyes and turns his face away, but not before Dean sees a tear escape and roll down his cheek. “Sometimes I’d hear her muttering, like, crying to herself about people getting hurt.”

Dean feels his stomach shrivel into knots. “Grant, this is important, ok?”

Grant nods weakly, staring resolutely at the far wall.

“How old was Chrissy when she started having her … visions? Was she 22 by any chance?” Dean’s heart starts to race, because _Jesus_ , he just _left_ Sam down there _alone_ and he _knew_ Sam was freaked and –

Grant rolls back, looking at Dean again with open confusion on his face. “No, uh … I think she was like, five. She’s had them all her life. Why?”

Dean pushes the chair away. “Someone will be in touch, call if you think of anything else, ok? Hang in there, and … call.” Dean rushes from the room without looking back.

So Chrissy isn’t one of the kids like Sam, they aren’t connected like that, which is good, but Dean just figured out the why, and he’s wishing he’d followed Sam’s instincts and never taken this hunt in the first place.

Psychics. Those freaks are after psychics.

~*~

The black slide of evil spreads like tar through the deserted parking lot, and Sam’s hand springs forward before his eyes even snap open to reveal the demon standing not ten feet away.

The demon possesses a man, or the body of a man, but honestly Sam never knows the difference until the exorcism is over. The man is an average build, slightly overweight with short hair, and he probably looks like someone, but Sam never bothers cataloguing the details.

It never matters because it never matters to the demons; some will snatch hobos and then dump their bodies into rivers to rot, others prefer to destroy a family, some prey on children – their bodies shift and change and their faces blur together as they spin through Sam’s memory. He remembers each victim, whether they lived or died - but when he tries to recall their faces, all he sees are those black and soulless eyes.

The demon smiles slowly, sending chills through the air. It doesn’t speak, just stares at Sam like it hit the lottery. Probably it thinks it did; it’s the first demon Sam has seen in months. Sam snarls. He doesn’t care how it found him or why, but he doesn’t want it anywhere near Dean.

Sam gives in to the tempting dark and calls the power forth.

The demon smirks at him like it thinks he’s cute, but when it tries to move forward Sam pushes back, and the smirk disappears.

Sam focuses, but it’s been so _long_ , and his hand is unsteady as it stretches for the demon. He feels the electric surge inside, fire rushing from within as he strains to hold back the host even as he drags the demon forward.

Sam feels the fire underneath his skin as Ruby’s blood comes to life, mixing with his own to form a deadly cocktail of hybrid power. He sees her black eyes, feels her soft skin under his fingertips and tastes her iron on his tongue. He gives in to the ethereal feel of her and breaths deep, drawing from her essence. Together, they rip the demon loose inch by inch until it goes shrieking back into the Pit.

The fire goes out and leaves Sam reeling, sharp pain digging in behind his eyes, and he slumps down without a second thought to lean his head wearily against the Impala’s passenger side door. It will pass soon enough. In the meantime, somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders if the man the demon was riding is still alive.

Sam goes back to breathing. White haze turns to black spots, then to blurry images. Sam rubs his eyes, clenches his fists. He blinks rapidly, clearing the fog from his vision until he can check on the downed man.

“ _Sam_!”

Dean’s voice resounds through the parking lot, that deep growling tone he gets when he’s frantic. Sam’s heart skips a beat, because he really doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. He cranes his neck to call out the all-clear, but before he can find his voice Dean flies into view.

Dean slams into the swaying man like a hurricane, connecting the knife with enough force that Sam hears the _pop_ and _snap_ of cartilage under the blade’s pressure.

“Dean, no!”

Dean starts to swing again, and Sam is moving before the man hits the ground.

~*~

“Dean, stop! _Dean_!”

Dean swings, mindless of Sam’s pleading. His left fist connects with a sickening crunch. The muted thunder accentuates every blow. It’s raining.

“Dean, that’s _enough_!”

Strong hands pull at him but he shrugs them off. He swings again, harder, again, the shape of the man in front of him is blurry; he has trouble aiming, why is Sam yelling? _Leave me alone_ , he thinks. He’s wet, his hands are wet.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice, muffled and frail sounding, filters through the rain. “Dean, _please_.”

Sam is crying, and that’s just wrong because Sam doesn’t cry, not anymore, not since Dean broke him by dying and he cried enough for the rest of his life. Vices grip Dean’s arms, distracting, and he drops the knife.

Dean blinks.

Something isn’t right, because Sam doesn’t cry, not anymore. Sam used to be made of passion and intensity, but now he’s made of silence and calm, and he doesn’t cry, and Dean did it to him, and he’s _sorry_.

Something firm is pressing against Dean’s face. Strong bands wrap around Dean’s body, holding his arms down, making it hard for him to breathe. “Dean. Dean, Dean, c’mon, we gotta go. Dean …”

Arms, muscles. Hazel eyes. Dean looks at the sky and wonders when the rain stopped. He’s wet, so it must be raining. Dean pulls back his face from Sam’s chest, and Sam’s shirt is red. Dean blinks again, confused.

“Sammy? You bleeding?

Sam looks down at his shirt, at his brother’s face. “Dean?”

“Leggo,” Dean says. The words come out slurred. Everything is hazy, fogged. “You …” Dean pulls away from Sam’s grip and looks down at his hands, his jacket. He touches his face, he holds his fingers to the light. He’s wet all over. Wet with red.

“Oh.” he says, staring.

Sam grabs at Dean’s shoulder, turning him away from the crumpled remains of the man who had threatened Sammy. Dean’s vision is a little blurry, but the man doesn’t look so threatening anymore.

“Come on,” Sam says, sounding weary. “Let’s get you home.”


	8. Chapter 8

Sam leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He stares relentlessly at the closed bathroom door, willing his brother to be alright.

“Dean, come on man, the water’s gotta be glacial by now,” he pleads, “Come out.”

“Go away,” comes the muffled reply.

Sam swallows down a sigh. Dean had started trembling shortly after Sam stuffed him in the car. He was nearly incoherent the entire drive back into the city, whispering to himself about blood and the dark and other things Sam _knew_ his brother would not have wanted him to hear.

It was only after Sam had ushered him into their room and tossed him a clean towel that awareness started to make a return.

Sam knew immediately when _Dean_ clicked back into control. Dean’s eyes flared to life and he spun on his heel, grabbing clean clothes from his bag on the way to the shower and slamming the door behind him.

Finally the sound of running water shuts off, and Sam hears a splash and a tired groan.

Dean emerges from the bathroom and he doesn’t meet Sam’s questioning gaze. There is no trace of blood on his skin but the white motel towels crumpled into a pile on the tile floor behind him are another story.

He heads for the dresser and the car keys.

Sam moves to block him. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Dean snaps, angling to step around Sam.

Sam steps with him. “Are you serious?”

Dean huffs and squares off, just outside of Sam’s space. “Sam, move out of the way.”

Dean means it, and all Sam can think is that if Dean leaves now there is no telling what kind of trouble he’ll find, and so he plays the one card he knows will work to hold him even though it’s the last thing he’d ever want to say.

“After what just happened back there, you’re really gonna go off alone?”

Dean clenches his jaw and his demanding look shifts into a glare. He turns his back on Sam, throws the keys back onto the table, and sets his shoulders.

“Dean,” Sam starts, but Dean is already moving again. He grabs the bottle of Jack from the floor near his bed and heads back to the bathroom, kicking out the pile of dirty laundry before slamming the door.

Sam follows to the door, but he doesn’t knock. “Dean –“

“Not now.” Dean’s voice filters through the thin plywood, cracked and raw. Sam winces. Everything in him wants to give in, to give Dean his space, but …

Sam shakes his head, wearily rubbing his fingertips into his eyes. “Dean, I’m serious, I need –“

 _To look you in the eyes and see that you’re ok._

Dean’s voice cuts him off, strong now, laced with deflecting anger. “Fuck you, Sam.”

Sam lets his hands fall to his sides. He takes a deep breath, tries not to feel the truth behind his brother’s tired words.

Space is the only thing that helps when Dean gets this way, and Sam is more than happy to give it.

He quietly checks the salt line by the door, repositions the hex bags near the window, grabs the ice bucket, and heads outside.

~*~

Dean is leaning against the sink when he hears the door close. He waits a full five minutes before going back into the room, not really believing that after giving him so much shit that Sam would have the nerve to just walk out like that, but he finds himself alone.

Dean sits numbly on his bed, closes his eyes, and tips back the bottle.

His skin isn’t tinged with red anymore, but blood that he can wash off was never his problem. He’s cold all over, but he doesn’t have the energy to move, and really, cold is what he wants to be.

He’s tired of heat, tired of the effort he’s making to lock the raging fire inside. He just needs …

 _This one is my favorite. Kind of Sweeney Todd, I know. Feels better from this end doesn’t it, son?_

Now everything is silent, and Dean finally feels …

Nothing.

~*~

The door has barely clicked shut behind Sam when he senses her. She waits for him across the parking lot, hovering under a street light like a moth drawn to a flame. Sam grits his teeth and goes to meet her, readying himself for a battle of wills.

As he approaches, her searching eyes fill with relief.

“Ruby … what are you doing here?” Sam can’t do this right now. He doesn’t need- no, want her – he said he was done and he meant it, he was sticking to his word and it’s not his fault they find him _everywhere_ he goes. He grinds his jaw, backing a step away from her, frustrated.

Sam wants Dean to talk to him. He wants to tell Dean the truth.

“I felt you pull that demon,” she says softly, her brown eyes wide and her voice filled with quiet concern. “It’s been a while. You ok?”

Sam wants this all to be over, this thing between them, so that there won’t be any truth to tell. He wants to hold out. He nods stiffly.

Ruby’s eyes narrow. “That’s crap, Sam. I _felt_ you. You barely had the juice,” she accuses.

Sam looks away, trying to find something else to focus on besides the fact that she’s right. “I’m fine,” he says evenly.

“We took care of it. We’re fine.” Sam sounds weak, even to himself. He’s not fine, not with this constant need thrumming underneath his skin every time she’s around. Not with his brother holed up in some crappy motel room playing scenes from _American Psycho_ in his head over and over again.

Ruby nods grimly. “Yeah? Well, that’s great, Sam. You can take out a lackey, good for you.” She steps closer, close enough that he can smell the scent of her shampoo, laced with the ozone of her simmering heat, close enough that he can almost taste …

 _No. I said no.  
_  
God, but he wants her.

“Next time, it might be Alistair. It might be Lilith, Sam. Then what, huh? You black out, Dean goes back to the Pit, and everybody dies.” Her voice is firm, and her eyes are open and unguarded, unafraid. Sam hates that he can’t see deceit written there.

Demon or not, Ruby isn’t lying. She never has. Not about this.

Sam lets his anger take over – anger at himself and his indecision, at his so-called destiny, at the loss of the Dean he used to know, the Dean who would have stood by him and helped him _end_ this damned war once and for all. He draws the anger around him like a shield, denying his every instinct, and it holds him steady for just one more day.

“I think you should go,” he says, letting the edge creep into his tone as he wills her to understand his determination.  
Ruby looks at him for a long moment. Then she shrugs her slim shoulders, flicking her hand dismissively. “Fine. You know where to find me.”

Sam stares at her as she walks away, and even though he won this round, he can’t help but feel like Ruby knew that he was begging for his soul.

Sam doesn’t know why she keeps letting him keep it.

~*~

For all that Dean teases Sam he figures it’s only justice that _he’s_ the one with voices in his head.

Damned things won’t shut up.

Dean concentrates on trying to relax, and he gets …

 _Dean, control your breathing. Work through the pain. That’s right, good. Now, let’s do it again._

Dean tries to think about nothing and he hears …

 _This is what it’s like here, Dean. Painful, I know. But we could do this another way … Out there, there’s a nice, long expanse of nothing. Would that be better? What do you say, Dean? You want to see the void?  
_  
Dean’s weary mind grapples for Sam and he remembers …

 _And I don’t care what it takes, I’m gonna get you out of this. Guess I gotta save your ass for a change.  
_  
Dean wishes they would all just shut the hell up.

~*~

Sam wanders slowly towards the ice machine, stalling to give Dean as much space as he needs. Sam had secured the room, but the truth is that Dean’s greatest enemy is locked inside with him, and there’s no protecting his brother from that.

At nearly three a.m. it’s a blind walk to the ice maker, but Sam finds it. He holds the bucket up against the dispenser and waits while it fills, suppressing a yawn despite the loud hum of the machine. Sam isn’t sure what he’s going to do when he gets back, but a cold beer and some infomercials sound good. If there’s one thing Sam has learned about Dean it’s that _repress, repress, deny_ is the way to go until he’s ready to talk.

Sam thinks of the way his brother ripped that man apart like it was nothing. He’d told Dean the man was already dead, words flowing from his tongue as easy as breathing, floating on the air between them.

Strange how light the lies are becoming nowadays.

Sam leaves the alcove and heads down the narrow hall, exiting near the rear of the lobby. Their room is on the back side of the motel, farthest from the street.

As Sam moves in that direction, the lights from the street lamps seem to blur slightly around the edges. He shakes his head and blinks, crossing his eyes to clear the haze. His feet feel heavy and slow, and he yawns again. It’s almost like there is a soothing hand in his hair as the gentle breeze whispers him to sleep.

His fingers are cold where they grip the ice bucket, and he drops it. The ice shatters on the pavement, and just as quick as the sound, Sam’s senses snap back online. He grits his teeth, dropping into a ready stance. For the second time tonight he feels it, but this time he knows what it means.

“You got something you wanna say, say it!” Sam beckons with his hands to the shadows, iron determination in his voice.

The same power he felt at the club flickers all around him, pressing against his skin. Slowly, one by one, shapes emerge. His eyes can’t pin them down, but he can sense them there, cloaked in the shadows, reaching with their gifts to rob him of his vision.

To his right, the swath of shadow parts; a woman stands there with her eyes closed, eyebrows drawn down in concentration. Sam snarls, feeling her phantom hands reach for him, weighing him down. All around him, more shapes emerge soundlessly from the shadows, reaching for him with their minds and hands alike.

Sam offers a grim smile.

They circle him, wolf-like, their eyes burning with intensity. Sam flexes slowly, allowing himself to relish the dark curling tingle of power deep inside. Sam’s eyes are dark and he sweeps the crowd evenly, assessing which will be the real threats and which are simple distractions.

A tall man lunges from the shadows on the left. Sam’s reflexes are quicker; he catches the outstretched wrist in both hands and spins, throwing his assailant past. Sam releases after the _crunch_ , and the man spins back into the dark shroud screaming.

The rest of the group ripples and advances, flashes of thoughts passing between them. They come at him from all sides. Sam’s concentration is split in two; with the demonic fire he fends off the blows to his mind and the buffeting wind of telekinesis, and with his body he fights for his life.

One by one they come, and one by one they fall. Sam moves quickly and efficiently, fielding the hits as they come. Alone, none of them are a match for him, but they don’t stop coming.

For every wraith that falls, another steps up to take its place, more and more of them until the power swarms over him and drags him down. Sam resists a tendril of suggestion, whispers crooning to him to _just lie down, relax_ , and behind his eyes he feels a pulse of pain.

He misses a crucial block, blinded by the white light as his headache crests, and the blow across his shoulder drops him to his knees. Distracted for an instant, Sam’s power fails.

Sam’s ears are filled with the muted roar of white noise, and sharp pain explodes all over his body as invisible hands haul him up and slam him against the wall.

Sam doesn’t want his brother anywhere near these people, and the last thing he has time to think before everything goes black is _Please don’t look for me._

~*~

“Fuck,” Dean states, hearing his own voice echo around the empty room.

 _Ok. Ok, look. So you snapped. You’ve done it before._

 _Yeah, but this time was different._

 _Sam doesn’t know that._

 _He’ll figure it out soon enough. He’ll realize you’re nothing but a killer.  
_  
Dean eyes, the bottle in his hands, gauging the level of the amber liquid. He should really stop.

 _No, that’s not …  
_  
“DAMMIT.”

Dean sits up, wiping a hand over his face and setting the bottle aside.

Grant. Hospital. Psychics. Sammy.

He just has to get a grip, that’s all. He snapped back there, and he needs to pull himself together. Sam’s been taking the lead on this case, and Dean has been content to let him, but Sam’s got his own shit going down right now and he needs Dean to _be there_ and Dean’s been checked out long enough.

The _last_ thing Sam needed was for Dean to push him away.

 _Dammit_.

Dean is screwed, but Sam doesn’t have to be. He’s going to grow a pair, grab his gun, and go and find his brother.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam comes around in the dark. He blinks rapidly, trying to remember what happened, fighting down panic when he realizes that he can’t see. His confusion only lasts a moment before it all snaps into place.

 _Fighting in the parking lot. Fighting with Dean. Fighting to breathe._

Sam carefully tenses his muscles, taking inventory of his injuries. His skin burns from his shoulder down to his hip where he hit the brick wall, and now the scrapes are rubbing roughly on the surface of the chair he’s reclining in.

Everything feels fuzzy, and his senses come back online one by one. The hard edges of the chair contrast with the smooth leather of the restraint straps holding him, and as he blinks into the blackness he feels the soft press of cloth against his eyes.

 _Blindfolded. Fantastic._

Sam breathes steadily through his nose, adrenaline pulsing at a sudden flash of memory of being at the mercy of Doc Benton, watching helplessly and waiting to lose his sight and his brother all at the same time.

Most people would struggle but Sam goes still, taking a second to get his bearings. He can tell he’s not alone. Several presences surround him, and he knows that even if he is able to pull loose, it will just be the parking lot all over again.

“Well. Finally. I thought you were going to sleep forever.”

The woman’s voice is clear and smooth, no trace of an accent and bolstered by a rash confidence. It has a presence all its own, and Sam can almost see the tendrils of sound in the darkness behind his eyelids; he can feel her trying to break into his mind.

It kind of tickles.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Sam growls.

“Oh,” she responds, “you would never. You see, we’ve been watching you, Sam Winchester. Knew it the second you got into town.” She moves around the chair, slow and steady as she talks, all business. “Let’s say that a group like ours is very interested in someone with your … special talents.”

Sam’s stomach lurches suddenly and his inner sight goes red with warning against her invasion. She diverts and trespasses smoothly, thought and counter-thought, until she gives herself away – he finds her strongest area of focus and that’s all he needs to thwart her at every turn, attacking in kind, raising a new shield and retreating deep into himself.

Sam waits steadily for her to figure out that her efforts are useless. He holds her off for what feels like forever, and by the time she finally gives up, the blindfold feels damp with sweat against his skin.

“Impressive, Sam,” she says, gasping. Sam feels dark satisfaction at the pain and frustration he hears. Her voice is farther away now, as though she needs to distance herself from him. “You’re even more of a freak than we are. I knew we could count on you.”

Sam refuses to be baited. “I bet that’s a nice trick when it works,” he sneers blindly in her direction. “Who’d you steal it from?”

She laughs, a strangled noise. “You weren’t so tough a few hours ago,” she retorts.

“You mean when you jumped me in my sleep,” Sam snarls towards the sound of her voice. He’d roll his eyes but she wouldn’t see. He tilts his chin up, tugging at the tight knot against the back of his head. “What’s with the Cloak and Dagger, Cat? I know it’s you. Or are you too afraid to look me in the eyes?”

Sam can tell the revelation doesn’t surprise her, but she takes a long pause anyway before she answers, thinking through her words carefully.

She ignores his question completely. “Consider us a … special interest group. You have potential, you know. We are especially _interested_ in you.” She sounds almost reverent as she speaks, and Sam tries in vain to hide his disgust. “You’re strong, Sam,” she intones. “We want what you have, and we have ways of getting it. You’re smart, I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Sam snaps, flexing his wrists against his bonds. “It’s not safe; it’s pl-“

“Playing with fire?” she finishes. Sam can hear the smile in her voice. “Oh, I know it is, sweetheart. In fact,” she whispers into Sam’s ear, moving close, “That’s what we’re hoping to get from _you_.”

Sam’s train of thought stutters.

Cat moves away, and he hears the click of her boots on the floor.

 _Warehouse, then, or some kind of factory.  
_  
“Do it,” Cat orders, and Sam hears the softer footfalls of someone smaller moving to his side.

Sam smells the faint scent of rubbing alcohol and something cold swabs the skin near the crook of his right arm. The hands touching him are almost gentle as they apply a tourniquet. Sam pulls back, struggling, but he is held completely immobile by the straps.

Sam struggles to think. The man from the hospital was missing for two months before he was found, and for Stephen to be institutionalized, Sam assumes his gifts would have been powerful. If Cat’s group broke in to take him, then they must have wanted him bad.

Sam is pretty sure that he makes that guy look like a street magician.

Sam forces himself to relax. They won’t kill him. They’ll keep him as long as they possibly can, use blood transference to try to gain his abilities. The sting of the needle is nothing compared to the prospect of this cult wielding a demon’s power.

Sam just hopes that once he figures a way out of this, he’ll still be strong enough to stop them.

~*~

Dean’s first trip from their room around the parking lot and back, he totally doesn’t panic.

In fact, he gets a little pissed off. Maybe it’s a little bit of a guilty kind of pissed, but he takes it any way he can, anything to keep his heart down in his chest where it goes and not frantically trying to jump up into his throat where it doesn’t belong.

Dean had certainly demanded his space, and it’s not like this is the first time Sam has been all too happy to give it to him. He shakes his head ruefully at the thought that finding out Sam ran off to whine to Ruby about how unbalanced and burdensome Dean is would be a relief compared to any alternative he can think of.

His second trip he looks around, just in case he missed anything the first time. Dean calls Sam’s phone and it goes straight to voicemail, and he doesn’t hear it ringing in the shadows. Everything seems in order, and he tells himself that if Sam wasn’t ok there would be signs of a struggle.

Then he walks back into their room, sees the ice box missing, and knows Sam hadn’t planned on being gone so long. Suddenly the worry is strong enough that he has to admit it to himself, and damn if that’s not just the end of the calm he was clinging to.

Now, Dean drags himself wearily back into their room and furiously slams the door, struggling with what he could only describe as a full-blown panic attack. Sam left _hours_ ago, and he’s just _gone_. Dean searched the motel property, the gas station down the street, the local late night bars, and the park just inside of town and come up empty-handed.

There’s only one place now that Dean knows Sam could be, and thinking of going there makes his skin crawl.

Dean reaches for the guns. It’s going to be a long day.

~*~

They bleed him nice and slow. Cat checks on him several times, just to make sure they don’t overplay their hand. _They care about him and want to know how he feels. They want him to last_ , she tells him, sharp nails digging into the skin of his neck; _they need him to stay healthy.  
_  
Sam grits his teeth, turning his face away from her. She isn’t telling him anything he doesn’t already know.

Every now and then, Cat’s eerie essence digs into his mind, pushing and prodding, trying to find the secret of where his strength comes from. Sam meets her at every pass, cutting her off from the memories she tries to see. Every time she fails, her anger feeds his determination.

Every time she tries, Sam has to struggle just a little bit harder to throw her off.

It goes on for hours. Sam has no idea how long he’s been gone or what time it is, but he’s starting to feel like passing out when she decides he’s had enough. She makes the call, and the softer footfalls come again. There is a slight pressure on the line, and the next thing he knows he’s waking up on an air mattress in a small metal space.

Sam has felt the effects of sedatives enough times to know that they drugged him, and he feels hazy and slow as he stands to inspect his prison.

Sam has to duck to keep from hitting his head, and he leans awkwardly against the wall for support. One lone light bulb hangs from the center of the ceiling, and in the weak gleam Sam can make out tracks in the walls where shelves used to be. He frowns, sinking back down onto the mattress in resignation.

There is food and water on a tray on the floor, and Sam lets out a laugh.

“I’m stuck in a freezer,” he states. Somehow saying it out loud doesn’t make it any less ridiculous. “I’m stuck in a freezer, and they left me steak for dinner. What. The fuck.”

Sam hauls himself to the door and isn’t surprised when he finds it sealed from the outside. His cell phone is probably in pieces in some trashcan. They took his jacket along with the Taurus and his spare knife and shoes, but they left the hex bag in the right front pocket of his jeans.

He pulls the bag free and reaches hopefully for the light socket. If he can burn the hex bag, there is a chance that Castiel or one of the others will sense him and come looking.

The base of the bulb is hot on his fingertips but not enough to scald his skin. Sam frowns, weighing his options. He needs metal. The food they left him is on paper plates, and he doesn’t see any forks or spoons. Sam feels along the cold metal of the wall until he finds a loose bracket where a shelf used to be. He pries it free gently, careful not to cut himself on the jagged edges.

Sam tugs the air mattress until it lies directly under the light socket and stands on top of it, putting the rubber between his feet and the steel floor. He unties the top of the bag just a little bit, not to spill any of the contents.

Sam steadies himself by bracing one hand on the ceiling. He slowly unscrews the bulb, switching over to feel as his prison is plunged into total darkness. The bulb goes in his pocket, singeing his leg, and he raises his palm with the hex bag up to the socket.

Sam hisses at the first jolt down his right arm when the bracket makes contact, but he is rewarded by a small spark flashing from the ceiling. After a few tries, Sam adjusts his aim just right.

A small shower of sparks falls into the withered herbs inside the fabric of the bag, and it begins to smoke. Severing the connection, Sam sinks to his knees and sets the bag gently on the floor. A few puffs of breath and the tiny flame catches. Sam falls back into the mattress in relief, watching the fire burn until there is nothing left for it to devour.

Before he loses what little light the flame gives, he replaces the bulb. His fingers tingle from the electricity he absorbed, and the tendons in his forearm are strained and sore, but maybe now he has a fighting chance.

Sam glares with contempt at the sealed I.V. port still in place. Even in the dim light he can see that his skin is pale. He’s fully aware that if he doesn’t leave it, they’ll find a way to set another one the next time. He tries to remember how many needle marks Chrissy had and loses count.

Fuck it. Fuck them. He rips out the catheter and applies pressure to the small wound until the bleeding stops. He knows he needs to rest, and he needs to keep up his strength.

He eats the damn steak.

~*~

Dean had broken into _Inferno_ with almost no effort.

Deep in the forest of skyscrapers, the muted feel of day had transformed the club immensely. Without the flickering lights of fire and the swirling chaos of the dancers the lower floor was just a room, nothing more. Dean tore through it without a second thought, searching for other rooms or hidden papers that would tie the owner to the disappearances.

Security around that place sucked ass, and normally he wouldn’t complain except for how it clearly only sucked because there was nothing _there_. His hands were shaky as he followed the routine: call the hospital, the morgue, the police – no dice.

Now Dean is staring at _Sam’s_ laptop, tapping the space key with some kind of relentless twitchy compulsion, and he finally admits to himself that he’s freaking out.

He pulls up everything he can find on the club owner, slogging through page after page of useless information before hitting the jackpot.

It’s a missing persons report, and it says that ‘Dante’, formerly known as Travis Richards, vanished from western Oregon just over two years ago. He’d been a carpenter, and he had a wife and a daughter. The picture the family submitted shows him down by the edge of a lake with a chocolate Labrador and a fishing pole, and he looks relaxed and happy.

Nothing about him matches the picture Dean saw in the paper. Dean feels his whole body tense against a sudden wave of hate.

 _“I swear I’m gonna lose sleep over this one. I mean why here, why now - where the Hell did everybody go? It’s not like they just friggin melted.”_

 _“Why was I immune?”_

 _“Yeah, you know what? That’s a good question. You know I’m already startin’ to feel like this is the one that got away?”_

Angels may have pulled him out of Hell. They may think he’s the kind of guy who will just accept that they have some kind of plans for him, that they may think they know who he is, that they might think nothing he’s ever done was his fault and expect him to just let it go with a pat on the head and a slap on the wrist, but Dean isn’t that guy.

This time Dean won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. This time he isn’t going to let the bastard get away.

He closes Sam’s computer, reaches for the ammunition that Sam bought him, sorts through the various hex bags that Ruby made for Sam, and gets ready to plow through whatever needs killing to get Sam back.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam jerks awake at the sound of voices speaking just outside the freezer door. He feels steady again as he climbs slowly to his feet and stands shakily on the mattress again to unscrew the bulb bare-handed. At least he can think straight, but his inner strength is distant, muted. Sam climbs down and braces himself as the voices move closer to the door. He presses against the wall near the left side and tries to hear.

Two men are speaking to each other, and their voices are brimming with excitement.

“He said it felt like nothing he’d ever felt before. Said it burned going in. _Burned_. I mean, the Hell, right?”

“I’ll believe it when I try it for myself.”

“Believe what you want, this guy ain’t like the others.”

Sam drops to a crouch in the darkness as one of the men pops the lock. The door swings outward. One of the guys is huge, and Sam recognizes him in a flash as the bartender from the club. The smaller guy is holding Sam’s Taurus like he’s never used one before. Sam doesn’t wait for their eyes to adjust. He launches himself at the smaller guy, throwing an upward sliding block to his gun arm. Sam grabs his wrist and twists as he ducks behind, taking control of the gun and pulling them both away from the bartender before either of the men have a chance to react.

Sam glances quickly around the room. It’s some kind of large industrial kitchen. There are no signs of the chair Sam was in before or any kind of hospital equipment. Two metal swinging doors block Sam’s view from the exit.

Sam angles the barrel into the crook of the smaller man’s jaw. “Stay back,” Sam growls at the larger man. “Hands.” The guy complies, putting his hands out carefully to his sides where Sam can see them. He doesn’t want to take the time for Q&A, but he has a few things he needs to know.

“Who are you people,” he demands, shifting the smaller man more firmly into place. “How many of you are there?”

The big guy nods frantically, like he’s just glad Sam wants something he can give. “Ok! Ok, just … take it easy!” Sam identifies the bartender as the skeptic from the conversation he overheard. “Take it easy,” the guy repeats, and Sam’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t bother. That won’t work on me,” Sam snaps, tightening his finger on the trigger. “I don’t know who you stole that from, but they were stronger than you, and so am I. Now tell me _who you are_!”

The smaller man in Sam’s chokehold starts shaking like a leaf. Sam can sense the fear; he feels his own repulsive bloodlust rise within him at the heat of the demon’s presence inside the man’s pulse. One side of Sam’s mouth twitches into a satisfied smile.

“I’m part of the circle,” the bartender answers, slightly paler than before. “I go by Reaper, that’s Scythe. We all got other names. Cat, she was the first. Dante showed her how to track down people with abilities, showed her how to use their blood to –”

“That’ll be quite enough, gentleman.”

A soft voice interrupts Reaper’s monologue. Before she finishes speaking, Scythe and Reaper both freeze, muscles going still against their wills. Sam feels the heavy touch of the air all around him, every particle pushing against him until his hand starts to release his grip on the gun.

The demon blood roars to life in protest, pushing back forcefully. Sam strains against the invisible hands, and slowly his fingers retighten on the grip. He steps toward the exit door and it feels like slogging through mud.

“Sam, come on now. You’ll only tire yourself,” the soft voice admonishes. “You can’t hold me off forever. You lost a lot of blood, I’m afraid.”

“Screw you,” Sam pants, but he feels like he’s suffocating.

A young girl steps into view. She has unearthly blue eyes and straight golden hair, and she cocks her head to the side, regarding him seriously. “Put the gun down, Sam,” she intones.

“G-ah,” the bright lights flash again and Sam feels the familiar slick of blood flow across his upper lip. “Go to Hell,” he gasps. Sam staggers back against the nearest wall, pulling Scythe with him. Everything is fuzzy and bright. “Who are you,” he demands. “Where’s my brother?”

The girl shakes her head sadly. “Shhh,” she soothes. “Don’t worry about that, now.” The phantom pull is joined by strong suggestion, and Sam struggles to keep his focus. “They call me Angel, and I’m going to watch over you.”

Sam rallies his strength for one last push. He pulls the trigger.

The flashing lights explode and Sam falls; and then everything is quiet.

~*~

Dean returns to the club just before it opens. He already knows his way around the building in the dark, and he selects a place shrouded in shadows and settles in to wait.

He doesn’t have to wait long before there is a _click_ in the lock of the back door. Dean watches as the DJ moves across the polished wood towards the stage, a pair of headphones in his hand. Dean sinks farther into his corner. He can already tell this isn’t his guy.

The DJ reaches his platform and plugs his headphones in, starting up the board for a sound check. Dean skirts around him, making it to the base of the stairs before the DJ turns on the overhead spotlights.

The heavy double doors at the top of the stairs are open and the large hall behind them appears to be empty. Dean pads across the carpet perfectly silent, re-tracing his steps from earlier. He ducks behind the bar – a much smaller space than the one downstairs.

Dean leans against the smooth wood of the ornately carved cabinet next to the sink. The wood is cold against his jacket sleeve, but he’s still sweating. Thinking quickly, Dean eases the door open slowly. Behind the wooden door is a small refrigerator door held closed by a lock.

“What the …” Dean scrounges in his pocket for his lock pick. In a few practiced moves, he has it unlocked and he unwraps the hook and opens the door, wincing at the light that comes flooding out. It takes a second for his eyes to adjust, but a second after that is all he needs to see the bigger picture.

The fridge is a split model, the mini bar kind with a freezer on top. On the bottom shelf, there is a small cardboard box marked _Nipro; 20g leur lock. 3 cc syringes_. Stacked horizontally on the freezer rack are rows upon rows of donor I.V. bags full of blood.

Dean’s stomach contracts violently, and he tastes bile in the back of his throat.

He watches himself from a distance as he reaches for the shelf. Each bag is marked with a date and two letters. Dean’s hands shake as he moves to check the bags farthest to the right.

 _S.W.  
_  
There are two of them.

Dean’s body freezes up and he can’t breathe, but his mind is spinning at a terrifying pace. It all only boils down to just one fact: Dean needs to find Sam, _now_.

Suddenly the heavy doors slam shut, and Dean jumps. A light female voice speaks smugly into his ear, but when he turns, no one is there.

 _Tsk – those are off limits, boy. Now… why don’t you put down that gun of yours, that’s right, good – and go settle in. You’ll be waiting here a while, and we wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.  
_  
Dean is locked into his body, no more than a passenger, as he complies. He closes the freezer door carefully, setting the Desert Eagle on the counter top and sinking down into a large plush cushion. “More mind games? Don’t you people ever get tired of-” Dean is cut off by the phantom feel of a hand around his throat. Instinctively, he knows that the girl wielding this particular power is nowhere on the property.

 _Please. This is not a game. You are trespassing, and you will be dealt with._

The silent words carry with them a vague air of promise.

Dean glowers in rage at the dark empty room. He can feel the sand running through the hourglass, and as usual, he can’t do anything about it.

His mother had a choice and chose to deal. His father had a choice and chose the same. Dean followed in his footsteps willingly, but Sam – Sam was a baby when the demon stole his innocence away. Their lives, the blood and bone and loss – none of it was Sam’s fault, and Dean is sick of his brother getting wrapped up in violent peril because of the blood in his veins.

This group, this … _cult_ wants blood?

Dean feels his lips twist into a snarl.

“So come and get me, bitch.”

He’ll show them blood. He’ll show them all.

~*~

Sam wakes up fighting, and he pulls viciously against the chair’s restraints. There is no give to them and he can feel bruises forming rapidly on his wrists. His head is pounding. Sam shifts his head left and right as far as the band around his neck allows, straining until he’s gasping for air. The blindfold slips a little; not enough to get a good look around, but if he angles his head just right he can see a few things.

The I.V. line in his right arm has been replaced, but instead of blood flowing out, clear fluid is flowing in. Sam flexes his left arm and feels that another line has been placed there. He feels the weakness in his muscles and knows that the left line would be red. As far as he can tell, he’s alone.

At least they aren’t going to let him die of dehydration.

Sam gives one final pull and goes limp, catching his breath and trying not to panic. He knows two things for sure: that Dean will be looking for him and that, given a choice between Dean and Castiel, he actually hopes the angels find him first.

Somewhere nearby, a door swings open hard enough to rebound off of the next wall. Sam cringes from the force of Cat’s angry presence. She stalks to his side, standing just behind him where he can’t see. Her power rakes him all over, tearing into his fragile defenses. Sam hears the heavier footfalls of others behind her, watching.

“What did you do,” she scowls, venom dripping from her voice. “How did you do it? You’re not a demon. You’re not a revenant. So, what is it about your blood, Sam, huh? Answer me!”

Sam pulls again against the straps, aiming a satisfied smirk in her general direction. “What’s the matter, can’t handle it? Red Bull give you wings?”

So fast Sam barely has time to process, the blindfold is shoved up and Cat’s dark eyes fill his field of view, smoldering with hatred. “Raven took a shot of your blood and he went _apeshit_.” Cat grips Sam by the throat, just under the leather band. He can feel her nails digging in, adding to the already overwhelming dizziness.

“This puts it at two of my boys you’ve killed,” Cat says darkly. “Might be enough to make me think you aren’t worth keeping alive.”

Sam’s vision narrows as he fights to breathe, and all he can see is brown eyes. The muted roaring in his ears gets louder and his heart pounds frantically against his ribs.

“Cat,” says an eerie voice over Sam’s shoulder. “I have the brother. What would you like me to do?”

Sam holds his breath and Cat stares at him for a long moment. Suddenly the pressure on his neck vanishes and the blindfold is tugged firmly into place, plunging him back into darkness.

Sam sputters, coughing violently until his throat opens up again. Angel’s powerful presence radiates through him, seeking something far away.

 _Dean_.

“Leave him out of this,” Sam pants, redoubling his efforts to pull free. “Don’t. Don’t!”

Sam hears Cat head for the exit. She mutters under her breath to Angel and the suffocating feel of the young girl’s power recedes. Cat’s voice is pure spite. “I guess they don’t all pan out. You, come here,” she says. Dimly, Sam registers the softer footfalls moving to his side, and the small, gentle fingers grip his shoulder bracingly.

“No,” Sam moans, redoubling his efforts against the straps. “No, I swear to God, you touch him and I’ll kill you, do you hear me?”

Cat speaks again. “I’m going to the club. There’s been a change of plans. Take the rest and store it. No one touches it, understand?” There is a pause. “Good. When I get back we’ll clean up this mess.”

Sam hears the door slam behind her. The gentle hand on his shoulder moves to his left arm, and there is a slight tingling _whoosh_ in his vein as the line is opened wide and his blood begins to flow at an alarming rate.

“Please, don’t do this,” Sam pleads to the invisible person at his side. “Don’t let them kill my brother. _Please_. Please, please …”

Something cold hits the vein in his right arm and he can’t remember what he was saying and as his life drains away he drops into unconsciousness.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean is almost asleep when the restraining power vanishes, and he falls out of the chair with a graceful thud.  
First, he scratches his nose, because _damn_ it’s been itching for… _forever_.

Next he tries the door just for kicks; but from the way the creepy girl voice had sounded before, he’s not surprised when it doesn’t open.

Then he gets his priorities in line. Shaking the feeling back into his arms and legs, Dean moves around the other side of the bar again. He reclaims the Desert Eagle first, taking an instant to relish the way it feels in his hand.

He grabs some plastic bags from under the sink and a cardboard box, loads the box with ice and packs the collection bags; keeping Sam’s in the center where it will stay cold the longest.

Then he pulls up a chair to the door, rests the .50 cal in his lap, and waits for his ride to arrive.

~*~

The fog parts just long enough to allow Sam to fight his way to the surface. He blinks rapidly to clear his vision, fighting against the useless urge to try to use his hands. His eyelids feel sticky and his heart is pounding - everything swims.

For the first time since he’s been in the chair, Sam can really see.

Outside of the room, Sam can hear screaming. Loud crashing noises echo off of the metal walls, making the soft voice calling his name seem surreal in the midst of it all. Green eyes hover anxiously above him, and for a single painful second he’s _sure_ it’s Dean.

“Wha –?”

“Sam?” Gentle fingers shield his sensitive eyes from the light and brush his bangs aside. The touch feels familiar, and slowly the rest of her face comes into focus.

It’s the nurse, the one who has been watching over him. He vaguely wonders if it’s time for them to kill him now, if he’s dead already and the bright lights are Hell, if his brother is alive … the small hands leave his face and shake his shoulders firmly.

“Sam, look at me, ok? Look at me.”

Sam tries his hardest. She seems so familiar, he can’t quite place her, he doesn’t …

“Sam, it's Rachel. We met at the psych ward at the hospital, remember? I need you to listen to me for a second, ok? Can you do that?”

Sam swallows hard, tries to nod. It must work because Rachel nods back before looking back over her shoulder to the door, her teeth worrying her lower lip. “They’re coming,” she whispers, and Sam notices in a distant kind of way that her eyes are red and puffy, brimming with tears. “All the ones that … they all went nuts, they –"

“Rachel?” Sam tries to lift his head to see her better, but her face is turned away and he still can’t _move_. He concentrates hard to focus his sluggish thoughts. “Y … we have to go, then, c’mon, let’s …”

She shakes her head frantically, and suddenly he realizes that she’s trembling all over. One small hand strokes his side in reassurance and one holds a syringe full of clear liquid.

Warning bells in the back of Sam’s mind go off like a toll in the fog. He senses danger, but he’s too weak to fight his way in to the shore. He tries to breathe and hopes that the tiny spark of adrenaline he feels will be enough to get them both out of this.

“No.” Rachel’s voice is strangely calm in contrast with her tears. “We’ll never get out of here. They’ll … they’ll kill us all, Sam, Sam, I – I’m sorry,” she says, speaking faster as she gives voice to her fears. “I blocked the door to buy us some time, but I have to … I’m so sorry, Sam, I never … this will make us go to sleep, ok? They’ll come through, but we won’t feel anything, I promise, I never w-wanted this, I _swear_ Sam, please,” Rachel jumps, letting out a shriek as something heavy hits the doorway of the makeshift infirmary. “Oh God, I can’t wait anymore, here …”

Rachel tips up the syringe, tapping out the air bubbles.

“Please,” he pleads, throat cracked and dry, voice dusty from lack of use, “Don’t do this. Let me go, you don’t …” he chokes on the words, rasping as he pulls against the straps holding him down and tries to catch his breath.

“You shouldn’t try to talk,” she says.

“No, _please_ ,” Sam pleads. “You don’t know what you … my blood, this … the …” he falters over the words, so clear in his mind but so hard to form on his lips. He’s just so tired. But Rachel is listening and he has to try to tell her, he has to warn her, _save_ her. “Not safe,” he sighs, giving the last of what strength he has left, “not … human.”

Her face swims in the air above his, and her eyes are soft with pity as she reaches for the I.V. line again.

“No,” he begs as he begins to struggle in earnest, his eyes widening. “please, don’t, ple –"

“Go to sleep, Sam,” she whispers.

The drug hits him before she even finishes talking and he sinks back into the blackness praying to God that he’ll die before she turns, too.

~*~

Dean is waiting when the doors swing open and the woman who calls herself Cat waltzes inside.

“Welcome to the Ninth Circle, Dean.” Cat smiles expansively, waving a pale arm around the Hall in greeting.

“That what you call yourselves? Let me tell you sweetheart, I’ve been there,” Dean sneers. “And believe me - I’m not afraid of the likes of you.”

She is still beautiful, but now Dean can see her for what she really is and he’s seen demons he thought looked sweeter.

She sidles closer. “Have you come to join our ranks? You would be formidable, once you … partake of our particular elixir of life,” she leers at him, and her half-grin shows white teeth stained red with blood.

Dean’s stomach rolls and the edges of his vision go red.

 _Sammy_.

Dean stands slowly, feeling the press of the gun in his waistband as his hands clench into fists at his sides. He ignores her invitation. “You are gonna take me to my brother,” he says evenly. “and then we’re gonna pay a little visit to your boss.”

Cat hisses, flexing her narrow shoulders. “ _Nobody_ sees Dante.” Her voice takes on a fanatic fervor. She tosses her long hair haughtily. “Only the enlightened look upon him.” Cat’s eyes are razor sharp as she rakes Dean up and down, assessing him like a highborn woman would look at an inferior racehorse. “You aren’t special, Dean. You’re nothing but a _human_.”

Inside, Dean feels the pit bubble and roll. He feels his walls weaken, and he doesn’t give a damn, he just wants them to come the fuck _down_. Just this once, he wants to turn the killer loose.

Inside, the angel’s voice whispers to him.

 _Dean Winchester. Come with me._

 _No._

 _Dean, you do not belong here._

 _Take somebody else._

 _You are needed, and we will have your assistance._

Dean had looked straight into the eyes of the angel’s true form. He had blood on his hands and murder in his soul, and he looked into the eyes of Heaven and saw the truth.

He looks now into the eyes of the genetic freak in front of him and relives the memory. Slowly, the calm of war descends and he smiles. He tells Cat the same thing he told Castiel.

“Fuck you.”

And then he lunges for her.

She sidesteps his right hook with astonishing speed, but Dean is a professional and he doesn’t let himself get overbalanced. Instead he pivots, countering by throwing an elbow strike with his left. Where he should be feeling the satisfying _crunch_ of her trachea collapsing, he feels only air.

Her high, clear laughter whirls around him, snatches in the rushing wind. He swings wide and his fingertips brush the fabric of her swirling skirt, but his grasping leaves him empty-handed.

Cat is all around him and inside of him. He sees her everywhere he looks.

“You’re not a warrior, you’re a _coward_ ,” Dean sneers. “You won’t fight with me, and you didn’t fight Sam, did you?”

Trying to catch her is useless, so Dean stops fighting. He drops into a ready stance and listens. He feels her pressure in his skull and sees her eyes all around him. Dean feels the chill in his spine: _This is what Sam felt, that first day,_ he instinctively knows. _God, Sammy. You’ve got to stop trying to protect me._

 __Her voice reverberates in his mind, cold as ice. “Why would I bother with sweaty brawling?” she asks with a thick sound of distaste on her tongue. “I can read your intentions.” She sounds near enough to touch, and Dean turns toward the sound, but once again she isn’t there. “I can feel your emotions.” The icy feel of her intensifies, curling through his conscious mind like liquid nitrogen. She’s pressing in on him from everywhere, and his instinct is to struggle. To _fight_.

Dean shuts his eyes, throws back his head, and laughs. He laughs deep and raw, lungs full to bursting with the sensation. Cat hesitates, sheer curiosity coloring her frozen presence.

“You can read my emotions? My _thoughts_? You think you can ‘feel my _pain’_?”

Dean’s eyes snap open and lock onto Cat’s golden-brown ones. The flash between them is electric as Dean lets all his shields fall down. Her eyes open wide in shock.

“Feel _this_ , you icy _bitch_.”

Dean’s inner fire lances out in one furious torrent of rage and pain. Everything he’d seen, everything he’d _felt_ , all of it; the heat, the searing anguish, the flames, the horrible, heady satisfaction of turning the tables – it all slams into Cat’s empathic consciousness like a hurricane.

She shrieks, clawing at her temples as she scrambles to back away.

“Where’s my _brother_?!” Dean advances relentlessly, refusing to grant her quarter.

“Wa- warehouse, stop, _please_ , oh _God_ ,” she rambles steadily, growing more and more frantic under the assault of Dean’s raw emotions, her eyes blown wide and frantic as she sees a different world.

 _Alistair had smiled and brandished the razor lovingly. “C’mon, Dean. You know you’re my favorite. Pick it up and all this goes away.”_

“Warehouse.WHERE.”

“I-I don’t … please, please stop, make it …”

Dean reaches for the Desert Eagle and aims true, letting his hatred steady his hand. He whispers quietly to the weeping woman at his feet. “I hope you like what you see. Because you’re about to experience it firsthand.”

“N … no, oh God, please. Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me, I’ll stop, I swear, I’ll …”

 _Dean’s first was special, just like he’d been promised. He towered over her, deaf to the allure of the sound of her voice, more attracted to the intoxicating scent of her fear. “Please, please don’t hurt me, Dean, you know me, Dean, no, no! Help me!...”Dean had nodded. It was partly true; he knew Bela, but he was the last person she should have asked for help.  
_  
Dean’s eyes grow dark with memory. “Sorry sweetheart,” he says with a tremble in his voice. “But I’ve heard it all before.”

Dean pulls the hammer back, and the click echoes loudly in the space between them.

Cat throws out her hands in panic. “Wait, wait! I – I’ll tell you!”

Dean’s finger tightens on the trigger, but he doesn’t make the squeeze. He stares at her, and she stares back, her eyes wide and brimming with tears of desperation.

“I’ll take you to your brother,” she gasps, “Right outside of Morrow. Packing plant - fifteen miles - I _swear_! And then … I’ll give you Dante, I’ll tell you wh- please, _please_ …”

Dean hesitates, but the overwhelming need for _Sammy_ wins out. He slowly lowers the gun.

“Double-cross me,” he breathes, “and I’ll send you there, I swear to God.”

Cat nods rapidly, trembling all over, flinching back from his steady gaze. Dean palms the Desert Eagle in his left hand and reaches down roughly with his right, grabbing her arm and hauling her painfully up.

“Move,” he snaps.

Cat wobbles a little, but she obediently leads him from the Hall. Dean tries to breathe, to focus on the next step bringing him closer to Sam. He isn’t worried about Cat anymore. No power on Earth can make her cross him now.


	12. Chapter 12

The trip to the plant takes no time at all and all the time in the world all at the same time, and when they get there, Dean can’t think about _time_ anymore any more than he can keep on breathing without _Sam_ , so he throws the Impala into park and launches himself out. He strides for the doors without looking back at the terrified woman in the front seat.

Until he gets within ten feet of the entrance, that is. Until he hears the primal sounding screams coming from inside.

Dean pivots, turning around long enough to haul Cat bodily out of the passenger’s side door, dropping her unceremoniously in the gravel and dirt. He presses the .50 cal’s barrel into the soft skin at the base of her neck hard enough to leave a mark.

Dean trusts the feel of the gun to tell him if she is going to try to run, and he keeps his eyes riveted to the warehouse door while growling out his demand for information. “What’s going on in there?”

Cat’s hands are wringing the torn hem of her delicate skirt. Her face grows even paler. “They turned,” she stammers. “T-the … your br... Sam’s blood, it …” She trails off helplessly at the distant sound of gunfire.

“ _Stupid_ sons of bitches!” Dean steps away and heads for the trunk. He doesn’t hesitate in his selections, sure hands flying over the arsenal even as his mind plays in slow motion the scenes he is sure to see inside.

He’s seen it before.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Romero rules, it is.”

Dean didn’t get to take out all of his anger on the situation the last time, but he sure as hell can now. He drops slugs into the double-barrel, pumping it with one hand as he moves. As he gets closer, Dean can see the door is hanging open slightly. He nudges it with the nose of the shotgun, winces at the loud creak it makes as it swings wide.

He eases into the narrow hall, trading the Desert Eagle for his Colt 1911A with his left hand. Echoes of screams and violence reverberate down the passageway, and Dean resists the urge to just walk through and join in.

Just before the turn, a man comes out of nowhere, slamming heavily against the far wall. Dean jumps back, leveling the .45 with one smooth motion. The man locks eyes with Dean and Dean knows him. It’s the bartender from the club.

The big guy quails, holding out a pleading hand. “Don’t! Don’t, I’m not – I didn’t touch the stuff, I swear!”

Dean feels the steady heat settle in his gut. “Touch. What. Stuff.”

The guy glances back down the hall. He looks petrified. “The blood from that kid. The others – everyone that shot up with it, fuck, they all went fucking –”

Dean takes a step closer, pointing again with the .45 for more emphasis. “How many?”

“T-two. Just two, but they – they attacked us. We put ‘em down, but …” A loud laugh rises from deep inside the plant, and the bartender flinches, his eyes flicking from the direction of the sound to the exit, past Dean.

“How many are there now,” Dean demands, stepping firmly in between the guy and his escape route. “Hey! _How many_?”

The guy’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. “I – I don’t know. Ten, maybe. There’s twenty of us and Cat … but she left, I don’t – I don’t think any of them got out. Please man, c’mon, let me through.”

Dean doesn’t budge. “ _Where’s_ my _brother_?”

“Back of the lot, near the fucking kitchen, shit, last I saw they were all headed that way like he was some kind of drug dealer.”

Dean’s blood goes to ice, but he drops the barrel thoughtfully. “None of them made it out?”

“Naw man, I SWEAR.”

There is an instant of understanding between them, but before the larger man can react, the Colt kicks in Dean’s hand and the guy is all over the wall.

“Good. Let’s keep it like that.”

A pearl glint catches Dean’s eye and he leans down, reaching around the bloodied corpse and retrieving Sam’s Taurus from the waistband of the bartender’s pants. Dean rubs the gun against his jacket in disgust, cleaning it before tucking it away.

He moves around the corner and he doesn’t bother looking back.

~*~

The inner chambers of the plant are chaos. Blood and bodies litter the floor, victims of infection or of violence inflicted by the infected. The supercharged cult members who run into the same air as Dean go down before they even see him there. His focus is totally narrowed, and he is brutal and efficient. The shotgun runs out of ammo and he drops it without caring if he gets it back later.

All he needs is Sam.

Dean comes to a halt in a large packing kitchen. To his left is an industrial freezer with a padlock on the open door, and in the center of the room is a girl with long, blonde hair. She’s covered in blood. She is standing at the other end of the room in front of another door - he knows instinctively that’s where Sam is. The girl is facing that other door and doesn’t see him.

Dean freezes. The blonde is standing over the shredded body of a dark-haired girl not too much older than herself. The dark haired girl’s neck is broken and her head hangs at an odd angle.

Dean is certain he hasn’t made any noise but the blonde girl cocks her head to the side as if she’s listening. “You came back.”

The answer comes from behind him: “Of course I did, Angel. I wouldn’t leave you here.”

Dean swears under his breath at Cat’s voice. He inches back to where he can see them both and covers Cat with the .50 cal and Angel, the blonde, with the Colt.

The air in the room becomes thick and weird. Dean blinks. This is the girl who trapped him at the club. Angel turns slowly, staring at Cat with a gleam in her eye that Dean doesn’t like the looks of. “This is your fault,” says Angel, taking a step towards the older woman.

Cat shakes her head violently, clinging to the doorpost. “N-no, I didn’t know, I didn’t mean –”

“This circle was my _family_ ,” whispers the girl. “You did this. You brought that boy here. And now they’re all dead. Rachel’s dead and _you_ killed her.”

There is a blinding flash of light and before Dean can move Cat begins to scream, crumpling to the floor. Angel’s face radiates insanity as she watches the woman who took care of her bleed from every pore, slowly melting in on herself as though she’s on fire.

Dean grinds his jaw and swings both guns towards the girl.

He unleashes double-taps from each hand, and Angel’s upper body disappears, leaving the rest to fall heavily to the floor.

Sudden silence falls. Dean’s heart stutters and he reaches for the door, certain that there are only two people left in the warehouse alive.

If he’s wrong, he knows zero people will be leaving.

Dean slides back the lock and shoulders the door open, catching an image of everything at once.

The back room of the plant has been converted into a makeshift hospital ward. Medical supplies and monitoring equipment clutter the space.

In the center, is Sam.

Logically, Dean is aware of just how _huge_ his brother really is, but now he can’t reconcile that image with the image of the wilted form in front of him.

Sam lies motionless in a reclining dentist’s chair bound at the wrists, ankles, chest and throat by heavy leather buckled straps. His skin is waxy and grey and his closed eyes are sunk deeply above dark circles. His left arm is wrapped with gauze and there is an abandoned collection set in the trash slick with his blood, like someone pulled the line before it was too late.

 _God, please don’t let it be too late.  
_  
The rest of the room fades away. Dean rushes to Sam’s side, mindless of the space between them. Sam is breathing, but his pulse is dangerously elevated. “Sammy, wake up,” he demands, pressing his hand to his brother’s heart. “Man, c’mon, I need you to wake up.”

Sam doesn’t respond. Dean shudders, a full-body reaction to the stillness. “Ok, it’s ok, I gotcha,” he mutters. _Think, dammit_. His hands run restlessly over his brother’s still form even as his eyes search for an immediate solution. Sam is cold to the touch all over. He needs a transfusion _yesterday_.

Dean reaches for the thick buckles, but he hesitates, hovering his hand over his brother’s restraints. Sam’s wrists are bruised, perfect black circles ringing the white flesh. The straps aren’t tight enough to bruise on their own, and Dean feels the old familiar fire of protective rage deep inside his core. Dean can see Sam struggling clearly in his mind, as though he had been there. To form bruises this angry, Sam must have been frantic.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispers regretfully, carefully releasing all but the strap on Sam’s right wrist. “But I gotta do this, and I can’t have you pulling loose on me if you come up swingin’, ok?”

Dean cups his brother’s face in one hand as he searches the room. Everything he needs is there for the taking, all he has to do is walk away long enough to collect the supplies.

Clear fluid flows smoothly into the I.V. set in Sam’s right arm. Dean’s eyes narrow, taking in a small unmarked vial resting on the countertop near the pump. He grimaces as he flips off the pump, stopping the flow of saline into his brother’s weakened system. He has no way to know if the bag is spiked, and Sam needs blood more than fluids.

 _You boys are a perfect match. Now, if you ever get where you need blood, either of you, you get to a hospital, you hear me?  
_  
Dean nods, looking across time into his father’s eyes. He considers retrieving the frozen supply from the truck and rejects that idea out of hand. He can’t afford to wait.

 _But if you can’t, here’s what you need …_

Dean lets himself fall into soldier mode. Forcefully releasing Sam, he moves quickly around the makeshift hospital ward gathering supplies. He finds the right port and pulls Sam’s I.V. line from the fluid bag, leaving it threaded through the silent pump.

Dean sets a tourniquet around his left bicep with a firm tug of his teeth, and he doesn’t blink when the needle pierces his skin. Pain is all the same to him now, just a distant meaningless metaphor.

Dean plugs in the line, releases the tourniquet, and turns the pump back on. The electronic hum seems loud in the silence.

Time passes slowly, measured by the drops of blood as they move through the line. Minutes are counted by the breaths that Sam takes, seconds by the tic of his pulse. Dean feels his eyelids grow heavy and his head begins to swim, but he doesn’t stop the pump.

Dean’s life flows smoothly into Sam at a steady pace, but it isn’t _enough_. Sam is still too pale, and even though some days Dean feels like he doesn’t know this new Sam - even though he’s been to Hell and back again and doesn’t even know himself anymore - he still knows he’d do _anything_ to make Sam stop looking like that.

As the room starts to tip and sway, Dean lays his head near his brother’s heart and falls asleep.

~*~

“Sam, wake up.”

It’s the urgency in her whispered voice more than anything that finds its way through the dark. Sam moans, pulling weakly against the straps out of reflex. Only the cuff around his right wrist holds. Sam feels pressure against his chest. Weird.

“Sam?” Small hands card through his hair, almost tender. They feel warm.

Sam breathes deeply.“R - Rachel?” Sam hears a sarcastic huff of breath. All the tension leaves his body at once, leaving him breathless. “Ruby,” he sighs. “Five more minutes.”

The hand in his hair comes down to firmly shake his shoulder. “Sam, listen to me. You gotta get up. Dean can’t do this much longer.”

Sam’s eyes snap open. “Dean?”

Ruby steps back, letting Sam see for himself.

Sam’s upper body is draped with Dean’s jacket, and Dean is stretched half across Sam and half across some kind of bar stool. The line previously connecting Sam to the saline bag is now pumping red, and Sam knows the other end is somehow connected to Dean.

Sam’s stomach clenches. “Shut that off,” he slurs. “Ruby.”

Ruby stops the pump without a word and pulls the port from Dean’s skin, holding pressure at the bend of his arm. With her free hand she unbuckles the last cuff and sets Sam free. Sam shifts carefully and tries to reach around his brother, but he can’t quite make the distance.

“Shh. Let me.”

Sam lets his head fall back in resignation as he tries to make the room stop spinning. Dimly he feels Ruby taking care of him, and he can’t help it, he’s grateful to her – he’s grateful to have them both. “How’d you find me,” he asks. “Hex bag?”

Ruby’s lips are a thin tight line. “Felt you,” she spits. “Felt you … damn, _everywhere_.”

Sam’s brain takes a slide to the left at that, and he fights the irrational urge to laugh.

“Sam. Stay with me!” Ruby shakes him again a little, and he nods, locking his eyes with hers. “Demon comin’, you gotta get up.”

Sam feels the rest of his senses come online. “Dante,” he guesses weakly.

“Yes. You need … you lost a lot of blood, Sam.” She holds up her knife suggestively, and Sam fights down the urge to retch.

“No.”

“Sam, please. You won’t live long enough to get out of here. Dante will rip you apart, rip _Dean_ apart.”

“Don’t,” Sam pleads, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. “Don’t. Don’t use him like that. I said no, I said …”

“Sam …”

For once, Sam’s mind is clear, unfettered by the endless need for Ruby. He can barely sense her anymore. It makes her presence seem distant and unconnected, and Sam feels …

Empty. Cold.

Sam looks at his brother, at Dean’s pale skin and dark smudged eyes, at the bruises already starting to form from his fight to get to Sam’s side. Sam breathes deeply of the smell of leather and cheap motel shampoo, revels in the feel of his brother’s acceptance.

Sam doesn’t want to lose this closeness.

Sam’s eyes burn and he feels his throat tighten. It wasn’t some new addiction; it wasn’t the need for power that drove his decisions before. It was revenge, and it was wrong, _had_ been wrong.

It’s no addiction driving him now, and revenge is the farthest thing from his mind. Fate steps in. Sam has to be strong enough. Just this once, he tells himself. Just enough to make it out of here alive.

Sam’s heart starts to race. Dean can never know, Sam can’t do this here, and they don’t have time to go somewhere else.

Ruby senses his distress immediately. “He’s out cold, Sam, I promise. You don’t need much, just … we’ll make it quick, ok? He won’t know.”

Sam nods fractionally, firmly turning his eyes away from his brother’s sleeping form. Ruby moves closer, raising the knife almost reverently to her skin. Sam chooses again the path he chose before.

It’s the only way.

Ruby’s eyes are full of sympathy. Sam knows she means it but he also knows she isn’t sorry.

Sam shifts Dean carefully deeper into his arms, hiding his brother’s face. Ruby makes the cut.

Sam bows his head and drinks.


	13. Chapter 13

“Dean, _Dean_.”

Dean jerks awake abruptly, his brain trying desperately to pick up where it left off. He looks up into Sam’s tiredly smiling face, and everything clicks. “Sam? Hey, you alright?”

Sam nods, wincing a little, and Dean realizes that he’s half-draped over his severely depleted brother and hogging all his lung space. He stands up, his whole body tingly and quaking; he moves his hand to Sam’s shoulder instead.

“Thought I lost you for a second,” Dean quips lightly, like he didn’t just think about never leaving this room again less than one hour ago. He looks down at his forearm, confused. “Hey, what happened to –“

Sam waves a hand towards the door. “Ruby’s here. She’s coverin’th door,” Sam sighs. “Demon comin’. Gotta move.”

Before Dean can protest the new arrival, Ruby steps in from the kitchen, tension radiating in her posture. She sees Dean awake and sighs in relief. “About time. You ready?”

Sam sits up slowly and Dean supports him when his muscles start to shake. Ruby takes the other side without a word.

Dean casts one last glance around. “Ok?”

They both nod, and slowly the trio works its way to the exit.

Sam balks at the sight of Cat’s mutilated body, and Ruby makes a hissing noise Dean thinks is way too familiar. They make it into the large packing room before Sam cries out in pain.

“Sam, what is it? Sam!” Dean cuts an inquiring glance to Ruby. Her eyes are demon dark.

“Too late,” she whispers. “He’s coming.”

The demon’s power blows in like a tornado, and Dean braces against the force of it. Shards of glass explode from the windows and lights. Sam staggers and it takes all of Dean’s strength to keep Sam from slumping boneless to the ground.

The demon advances, a smug leer on his face. Dean moves his arm from Sam’s waist to his chest, stopping him in his tracks. Dante chuckles: a darkly satisfied sound.

“Sam Winchester,” he drawls. “Been a long time. You know - when my girls found you?” He shakes his head. “Almost didn’t believe it. Woulda warned them about that disease of yours, but … this is just too much fun, don’t you think?”

Sam blinks in confusion, but Dean can see it now in the way the demon tilts his head to the side; in the slight quirk of his lips.

“You were Duane Tanner,” Dean snarls. “Shouldda put a bullet in you when I had the chance.”

The air starts constricting. “Yeah. You should have.” The body of Travis Richards raises a hand and Dean feels a vise close around his chest, contracting sharply. Sam rallies, pulling Dean behind him with one arm.

“No,” Sam says, his voice flat. “You don’t touch him.”

As Sam steps in front of Dean, the pressure eases. Dean watches his brother tremble and shake against the onslaught, his face ghostly white.

Sam and the demon struggle for dominance as the demon moves closer, focused entirely on breaking Sam’s guard. Sam stumbles but doesn’t cry out, swaying heavily to the right. Dean and Ruby both move to steady Sam, and Dean catches Ruby’s gaze behind Sam’s back. She nods.

The demon lunges for Sam, sensing victory.

Dean spins, handing off the knife to Ruby and pulling Sam to the floor. Ruby raises the knife high, ready to strike. The tip of the blade touches down into the fabric of the man’s shirt, but before she can drive it home black smoke rockets from the possessed man and the demon disappears.

Travis Richards falls onto the knife, and Ruby curses under her breath, half catching him and half trying to pry herself free.

Dean ignores them, rolling Sam over to get a better look. Sam’s lips and one cheek are covered in blood.

“Sammy, here, come on …” Dean wipes Sam’s face and then his jeans, spreading the staining everywhere. He flinches at the hand on his shoulder until the handle of Ruby’s knife drops into view.

“Take it, get him out of here,” she says. “I’ll torch this place.”

Dean doesn’t argue, although one day he should. Sam moans, clutching at the front of Dean’s jacket. “C’mon, I’ve got plenty of your stuff in the car. We’ll hole up somewhere and put it back where it goes, ok?”

Sam’s eyes glitter and he twitches, shakes his head. “No, don’t.”

Dean is so not having this argument right now. “Sam, you need –“

“I said _no_ , Dean. Please. Leave it.” Sam is pleading with his whole body, every muscle rigid with fear. “It’s poison. Dean. _Please_.” Sam holds Dean’s gaze, and Dean knows this is a fight he isn’t going to win.

Dean sighs. “Yeah, Sammy. Ok. Come on, let’s get the hell outta here.”

~*~

Dean stuffs Sam into the back seat and drives until he nearly runs out of gas. Sam’s reflection is passed out in the rearview mirror. He’s still pale, but Dean can see him breathing steadily. Every now and then Sam murmurs softly, twitching against restraints no longer in place. Sam’s eyes roam restlessly underneath fragile lids, straining to see in the dark.

Dean ignores the tightness in his throat and presses harder on the accelerator.

Just across the South Carolina border, the unrelenting urge to run subsides. Dean guides them gratefully into the parking circle of the first motel he sees. He checks in with one eye on the car and doesn’t even notice how hot the clerk is.

“Sammy, c’mon, we’re here.” Dean gently shakes Sam awake, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. Sam jerks, disoriented. He draws up his elbows stiffly, raising his head in question.

Sam’s voice is delayed, confused… but hopeful. “Dean?”

Dean blows out a sigh of relief. “Yeah, it’s me. Come on man, I can’t haul you outta here myself.” He tugs at Sam’s jacket again and Sam responds, shuffling awkwardly to the open door.

Dean’s anxiety eases considerably when Sam doesn’t need help to stand up, and he only sways a little closing the door behind them. Dean steadies Sam lightly, guiding him with his fingertips at the curve of Sam’s arm, just in case he decides to take a header into the asphalt.

Sam reaches wearily for the nearest bed and Dean controls his slide, easing him onto the comforter. Sam curls into the mattress automatically. Dean takes a second to mutter about how he doesn’t know how he’s gonna get Sam under the covers, and Sam shifts at the sound of his voice.

“M’sleepy, not deaf, Dean.”

Dean squints, making sure that he’s not imagining Sam’s half-grin. Most of the rest of his anxiety fades at the confirmation. “Have at it, dude. We got nothin’ but time.”

Dean unpacks the car and busies himself securing the room. He takes comfort in the fact that at least for tonight, Sam can be safe. By the time he’s done, Sam has managed to burrow his way deep into the sheets. He’s still in his t-shirt and jeans but his boots are on the floor next to the nightstand and Dean decides that’s close enough for government work.

Dean leaves the bathroom light on in case Sam wakes up confused. He knows Sam would roll his eyes and say he’s fine, really, it’s over and he’s over it; but Dean knows better. The truth is that deep down inside, buried underneath the weight of the world and a lifetime of guilt and horror, at the root of his being, Dean is still Sam’s big brother.

Sam sleeps like he’s off somewhere else entirely, and Dean leaves him to it, climbing gratefully into his own bed. Dean dozes off and on, watches _Predator_ on the Spanish channel without the volume, and checks Sam’s temp every few hours by brushing Sam’s forehead with the back of his hand like he used to do when they were kids.

Several hours in Sam stirs and tenses up, moaning, and his breathing is labored. Dean moves to his side and Sam’s eyes open, swirling with questions and doubt. Dean sees Sam blink his disorientation away.

“They all died,” Sam whispers brokenly, trying to process the impact of recent events. “It was me, Dean. I killed them.” Sam fumbles for Dean’s arm and grabs it, and his grip is surprisingly strong. “Oregon too. I killed them, Dean. It was my fault.”

Dean shakes his head firmly, gently pressing Sam back down into the blankets. “Hey, shh, it’s ok.”

Sam swallows hard and shakes his head, sweat glistening on his skin and dark circles under his eyes. “Everything hurts…” he insists, the words coming faster. “Screwed it all up… everything dies …”

“Sammy. Look at me.” Dean catches Sam’s gaze, trapping him in place with the force of his honesty. “It’s _ok_ , Sammy. It’s ok. How about you rest, huh? We’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

Sam frowns, but he lets Dean press a cool cloth to his neck and he closes his eyes and nods.

Dean watches Sam drift off again, but this time he stays.

~*~

Sam’s fever breaks the second night, and by the third day he’s strong enough to start asking annoying questions, and that’s when Dean knows he’s going to be alright.

“How many more of them do you think are still out there?” Sam looks up from his Gatorade, brow furrowed in discontent.

“Dude, no idea. But after what happened, I’m sure they ain’t gonna be going after psychics anymore. Besides, the important thing is we got the ones who … who were, um.” Dean scratches his head, trailing off. He’s still not ready to talk about this, and from the guilty look in Sam’s eyes, neither is his brother.

Sam looks down at his fingers, idly playing with the plastic ring on the Gatorade cap. “Yeah,” he whispers.

Dean sighs. He should be feeling the pull, the itch to get back on the road, but he isn’t. He should be wondering why the hell massive demonic plagues seem to hit whenever Sam gets a paper cut, but he just can’t bring himself to care.

Sam clears his throat and grins a little, and Dean gratefully anticipates the upcoming subject change. “So, uh … you find any new leads while I was out?”

Oh. Well.

“Yesterday some magician dude died of like a million stab wounds in Sioux City Iowa – none of which put holes in his threads,” Dean offers. It ain’t the apocalypse, but it’s the best he has.

Sam’s eyes flicker.

Dean braces himself. “Look. I’m not – I can’t get back into it with the demons. Not right now. This one … this one was close, and … I’m not ready, Sammy.”

 _I can’t lose you, but … I can’t lose me, either._

He waits for Sam to argue, to start a lecture about priorities, but Sam surprises him.

“I know. It’s ok, Dean.”

Dean squints into his brother’s eyes, searching for a sign that Sam may have changed his mind since that day on the side of a long Kentucky road. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m with you,” Sam says, and Dean holds his gaze, convincing himself Sam means it.

Sam stares back and doesn’t flinch. Dean nods once, tight and sure.

Then they go hunting.


End file.
